


The Things We've Done

by Pandalandalopalis



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-17
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2019-06-28 13:38:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 27
Words: 76,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15708330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pandalandalopalis/pseuds/Pandalandalopalis
Summary: Bucky Barnes x Telepathic ReaderAll you wanted was simplicity. You had moved to Washington, DC for a better start - to get away from what you were, to get away from what you were expected to be. You never thought you’d meet the Captain America in a bar just three days after moving. You never thought there would be a dangerous person in your apartment just hours after meeting him.Beginning with the events of Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Hydra sends its most deadly weapon after a powerful telepath untested in the range of her abilities. Intrigued by the broken pieces of his mind, the two of you make an agreement: he helps you hide from Hydra, and you repair and salvage what’s left of his memories.(Rating changed to Mature for violence, and some sexual themes in later chapters)





	1. Part 1 - Prologue + Chapter One: Steve Rogers

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: You’ll meet a lot of people in this story, Steve Rogers, Matt Murdock, maybe even Frank castle — but this story is primarily a Bucky x Reader story, despite some diversions later on. I have most of this story already planned out (although there are some middle bits I haven’t figured out yet), so let’s see how this goes!
> 
> A/N: This story is always posted to tumblr first and then to AO3 when I get time, so get added to the tag list! -> pandalandalopalis.tumblr.com

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You meet Steve Rogers for the first time.

You stood outside the Catholic church, frozen, staring, contemplating going in. It was early — Sunday morning during service. It was cold enough outside that the wind bit at your cheeks, but not quite cold enough that you would have remembered to wear gloves. You stood there for a long time, your legs itching to move yet refusing to walk forward even one step.

This was the third time you had done this. The past two weeks, early Sunday morning, you would walk down the streets of Hell’s Kitchen to the first church you could find, then you would stand outside for an hour or so, never going in. Normally, you left before the service ended, and before its patrons could find you hovering outside their doors.

But this time, this time you stayed. You thought you might go in, that maybe there would be a better chance if someone struck up a conversation with you, asked you about yourself, your life. Maybe they would want to show you the ways of their God, introduce you to their — what? Priest? Pastor? What was the Catholic term? Father?

So you stayed as the people began trickling outside as the service ended. Nobody paid much attention to you, you who stared up at the church as if it could give you what you needed. The church was stoic and quiet and said nothing. How disappointing.

“Are you lost?”

The voice did not belong to the church but rather to the man who was now standing next to you. As you turned your head to face him, you registered the red-tinted shades he wore on that gloomy, cloudy morning, and the white cane in his hands. You gave him a gentle smile and a shake of your head.

“No,” you replied. Your voice was soft and quiet as you said next under your breath, “Not physically, anyway.” Your eyes returned to the church’s, begging for _something_.

The man must have had a great sense of hearing, because he responded to the addition in a kind tone. “Ah. You’re lost spiritually. Lost in life.”

Slightly bewildered, you turned to him again. He adjusted his glasses and shifted on his feet. “I didn’t mean to intrude on your. . .contemplation. Blindness happens to do wonders for one’s hearing, you know.”

You couldn’t help it. Your mind had a tendency to. . .wander. You slipped into his head like it was nothing.

His memories were strange. You had never been in the mind of someone who was blind before. It was filled with sounds and smells and tastes and touches. But thoughts are always the same. His name was Matt Murdock. He was a lawyer. Most interestingly, he was the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen.

The intrusion only took a second before you forced yourself to pull away. “It’s okay,” you replied to his previous statement. “You’re not wrong.” Once again your attention found itself on the church. Tears stung your eyes but refrained from blurring your vision. “I don’t know what to do,” you whispered. “I thought I’d seek a higher power. I thought maybe I could find what I’m looking for here.” You knew from you trip inside his mind that he was a compassionate individual. If anyone could point you in the right direction, maybe he could.

“And what is it that you’re looking for?” he asked.

You searched for an answer before finally settling on one. “Forgiveness.”

A silence washed over you both as he seemed to be taking in your response, your tone, your reluctance to go inside. It didn’t take him long to come to a conclusion. “You don’t think you deserve it.” It wasn’t a question.

You didn’t bother to explain why. “No.”

He twisted his white cane in his hands. “You know, God gives forgiveness for those who ask for it. Seeking redemption is the first step to deserving it.”

This time you shifted your body to face him rather than turning just your head. “Do you really believe that? Do you really believe that anyone can be forgiven?”

He took a moment to answer. “Yes, I do.”

You gave him a small, sad smile. Your head shook to the side. “You’re lying.”

The corners of his lips pulled down slightly, his eyebrows knitting together. He opened his mouth, but you spoke first.

“It was nice meeting you, Matt.”

You left him standing in front of the church that you didn’t go in. You had the confirmation you needed. Now all you needed to do was live with the answer.

 

(He never told you his name.)

 

* * *

 

**Two and a Half Years Ago**

 

Desperately, you searched through your boxes of things, trying to find your pens and paper. It had been three days since you had moved to Washington, DC, and you were to start your new job tomorrow. Well, _new_ wasn’t the right word for it. Your job had asked if you could transfer from New York to Washington, and you had been more than happy to agree. You needed a fresh start. New York was. . .well. . . .

You had moved from your home to New York. You thought that would be a fresh start, too. What you found instead was a breeding ground for enhanced people, mutants, superheroes, supervillains, and alien invasions. You needed a break. Washington seemed like the perfect place for that.

You worked for the government as a translator. As a telepath, language came easily to you; as soon as you were exposed to someone who spoke a different language, that language was adapted into your vocabulary. Your favourite thing was when people would ask you how many languages you spoke. You’d give them three guesses, and if they could guess the amount then you’d tell them the story behind it.

Not one person had been successful yet.

It was getting late and you still hadn’t found your work supplies. You had unpacked almost everything over the three days you had been in your new apartment and you had at least opened every box, but still nothing. There was a strong possibility that the box may have been left behind.

Sighing, you looked at the time: it was 9:00pm.

You needed a drink.

 

The bar you ended up at wasn’t the closest to your apartment — it wasn’t even the second closest, or the third. You found your feet carrying you farther and farther through the city, until they finally stopped in front of a place twenty minutes from where you now lived.

This happened sometimes, with your telepathy. It was a strange feeling you couldn’t explain, like there was a reason you needed to be here and not there, not somewhere else.

Walking in, it seemed to be an ordinary bar like any other. You sat on a stool and ordered a drink, nursing it silently as you contemplated where you could get work supplies early tomorrow morning.

“Hey.”

You glanced at the voice next to you. It was a man, black hair, average height, not unattractive. You gave him a polite smile. “Hi.”

“Can I buy you a drink?” he asked.

You shook your head. “No, thanks.” You held up your glass, the ice clinking softly inside. “I have one already.”

He leaned closer into your space, resting his arm on the bar. “I’ll buy you another one.”

Growing increasingly uncomfortable, you shook your head again. “I have to get up early tomorrow. Sorry.” It was half a lie — you could probably stay for longer but you really didn’t want to deal with a man trying to pick you up right now.

“Oh, come on, it’s only — what? Nine-thirty? You’ve got lots of time. One drink. What do you say?”

You were starting to get frustrated with his insistence. You tried to stay polite but your voice had developed a slight edge. “I really can’t. Sorry.”

He sat down in the seat next to you. His hand slid to your thigh. “I promise I’ll make it worth your while.”

Another person may have slapped him in your position, but you were never one to condone violence, so instead you took his hand and placed it on the table. “Please stop.”

His eyes began to narrow. “Look, sweetheart, I—” He stopped abruptly when a hand landed on his shoulder.

The hand belonged to a broad-shouldered, blond man with a stern look on his face. “She said no,” he said.

The first man gave him the briefest of glances, sweeping the second man’s hand off his shoulder, and keeping his attention mostly on you. “Mind your own business, man.”

The blond man fisted his hand in the first man’s shirt, not too roughly, just enough to get his full attention. “I’m not going to say it again.”

And did it ever get his attention. “Hey! You—” His eyes grew very wide as he suddenly took in the man holding on to him. “Ho-holy shit. You’re Captain America. Holy shit.”

The blond man — who you now knew was Steve Rogers — sighed and clapped the man on the shoulder. “Let’s leave the lady alone, huh?”

The dark-haired man was less confident now, but still ever persistent. “C’mon man, I was just—”

“You were just leaving.”

The first man finally conceded, and, with one last look at you, he stood. “Yeah. Alright.” He hesitated in front of Captain America, as if contemplating trying to ask for an autograph, but ultimately decided against it and walked over to the other side of the bar. Unsurprisingly, he began chatting up another woman, this one who seemed more than happy to invite him to sit.

You returned your attention to Captain America, giving him a soft smile. “Thank you,” you said, your tone genuine.

He nodded. “No problem, ma’am.” He gave you a small smile before turning to walk away.

“Hey — wait a minute.” You stopped him, touching his arm. He glanced back at you. “Stay. Have a drink with me.”

“You sure? I thought you had to get up early tomorrow?”

You swirled you drink and gave a slight shrug. “I can stay for a little while longer. Besides — I just moved to the city and I don’t know anyone. Might be nice to make a friend.”

What you said seemed to pull him over. He sat down in the stool next to you. “Yeah. I know what that’s like.” He signaled the bartender for a drink.

“The whole ‘Man Out of Time’ thing must be difficult, huh?” you said, not unkindly.

“Yeah,” he replied, and sipped his beer. He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t have to. “I didn’t get your name.”

“Y/N. L/N.”

He held out his hand. You smiled and shook it. “Nice to meet you, Y/N L/N.”

“Nice to meet _you_ , Steve Rogers.”

He smiled in return and pulled his hand back. “So, where’re you from?”

“[Your hometown/home country]. But I moved to New York when I was eighteen. You’re from Brooklyn, right?”

He nodded. “Part of me wanted to stay, but. . . . I don’t know. Everything was different. S.H.I.E.L.D. needed me here, anyway.” He seemed like he didn’t really want to be talking about it with a stranger. “So eighteen, huh? That’s a bit young nowadays, isn’t it?”

You shifted uncomfortably. It was your turn to be tight-lipped. You suddenly found the contents of your glass to be very interesting. “Issues with family. Expectations. It was. . .too much.”

Thankfully, Steve took the hint and changed the subject. “Why did you move out of New York?”

You laughed softly under your breath. “It was just too chaotic there, I guess. Well, you know. Alien invasions and such.”

“Oh, trust me. I remember.” He paused and considered you. “Are super soldiers pushing it? Because I hear there’s one living here in Washington,” he said, the corners lifting at the side of his mouth as he took another sip of his drink.

You grinned. “As long as he doesn’t attract too much trouble, I’m sure I’ll be fine.” You rolled your glass between your hands, ice being the only thing remaining in your drink. “To be honest, I don’t know if I would have worked up the courage to leave if it hadn’t been for my job. They transferred me out here.”

“What do you do?”

“I’m a translator for the US government. I like the job. Flexible hours, always meeting new people. It’s nice.”

Steve’s eyebrows raised slightly. “Wow. A translator. You must speak a lot of languages then, huh?”

You laughed. “Yeah. Yeah I do.”

 

The two of you talked for about an hour more before both deciding to call it a night. You asked him if he owned a phone, and when he laughed you asked for his phone number. He seemed hesitant.

“You’d be the first person from Washington to go in my contact list,” you prompted. “First friend in the city.”

He smiled softly at that and nodded. “Okay.” The two of you exchanged phones briefly. “I will say it’s nice to know someone who isn’t a part of S.H.I.E.L.D.,” he said.

“Hopefully we can hang out again sometime,” you said.

“Hopefully.”

The two of you parted ways, walking in opposite directions. Steve had offered to walk you home, but you had politely declined, not wanting to bother him with the twenty minute walk to your apartment. Maybe you shouldn’t have said no.

 

You knew that there was something wrong the moment you stepped in your apartment building. Something just felt. . .off. The feeling grew as you ascended the stairs to your floor, up, up, worse and worse. You froze in the stairwell, finally understanding your growing dread.

There was someone in your apartment.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hey! Thanks for reading! I know that technically Bucky wasn’t really in this chapter, but this was mostly here to set up the story. I hope you’ll be patient with me as this moves forward!


	2. Part 1 - Chapter Two: The Man in Your Apartment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s someone in your apartment. You call Steve for help.

The panic washed over you in a million different ways, as if waves of ice water were being poured in a steady stream. You were still three floors from your apartment, and yet you could feel them. The person who had invaded your home. 

You couldn’t think straight. Your mind was being flooded with too much… _noise_. The stairwell was silent and yet you couldn’t hear anything. 

_There’s someone in my apartment._

_There’s someone in my apartment._

_There’s someone in my apartment._

When did you pull out your phone? You had it pressed to your ear, and there was ringing on the other end. You had dialed somebody. But you didn’t know anybody in Washington; you had just moved here. 

You couldn’t think straight.

You couldn’t think straight.

You couldn’t think straight.

Steve. That’s who you were calling. Captain America. He could help you. He would help you. He had to. There could be no situation in which he doesn’t. 

_There’s someone in my apartment._

_There’s someone in my apartment._

_There’s someone in m_

“Y/N?”

He picked up. He picked up the phone. He answered your call. He was on the other end now.

_Say something._

_Say something._

_Say something._

A strangled gasp left your mouth. “ _Steve_.” Did you say that? It was your voice.  

“Y/N, what’s wrong? What happened?”

You couldn’t breathe. You couldn’t breathe. You couldn’t. Breathe. 

_There’s someone in my apartment._

“There’s someone in my apartment.”

_There’s someone in my apartment._

“Y/N, take a deep breath for me. Can you do that?” Steve’s voice was gentle, but worried. It did nothing to calm your intensifying panic. 

You stuttered. “Can’t-can’t-can’t-can’t-” When did you end up on the floor? Your hand was pulling your hair. 

Telepaths have excellent memory. They’re able to access different parts of their mind and bring bits and pieces to the forefront. You wished you didn’t. You wished you could forget. 

_Don’t let it happen again._

_Don’t let it happen again._

_Don’t let it happen again._

“Steve, there’s a  _man_ in  _my apartment_.” Your laboured breaths turned to hiccuping sobs. 

“I’m coming over.” You vaguely registered the sound of movement. “What’s your address?”

_Don’t let it happen again._

_Don’t let it happen again._

_Don’t le_

“Y/N! Where do you live?” His insistent tone broke through the haze your mind now swam in. You must have told him your address, because he said, “I’m on my way. It’s okay. Don’t worry. Just hold on.”

There was water on your cheeks. Where was that coming from? Was the ceiling leeking? It blurred your vision. Oh. You were crying.

“Keep talking to me, okay?” Steve said. “Where are you right now?”

“I’m-I’m-I’m-”  _Words words words_. “The-the stairwell.”  _Lie lie lie_. “I went to my door. I heard footsteps.” You took a deep, shuddering breath. “No one in this city knows me, Steve.  _No one except you_. I have the only key. Nobody else could have gotten in. I locked it before leaving. I know I did. I know I did.  _I know I did_.” Did you? Yes, of course you did. You did you did you did you did. You never forget to lock your door. 

“Was the door broken into?” he asked. You could hear his slightly laboured breathing, the footsteps. It sounded like he was running. “Was it open when you got there?”

You didn’t know. You didn’t see. “I-I don’t remember. I don’t remember.”

“He could have come in through the fire escape. Stay where you are, alright? I’m almost there. Keep talking to me. Tell me something.”

“What?” you managed. Your body was shaking.

“Anything. Tell me about New York.”

_No._

_No._

_No._

_Don’t let it happen again._

_Don’t let it happen again._

_Don’t let it happen again._

“ _Y/N_. Talk to me.”

You spoke in almost incoherent sentences. “Messy. New York was messy. I left,  _I left_. Different. Washington was supposed to be  _different_.”

“Try to slow your breathing, Y/N. I think I’m here, I’m outside of the building. Can you come down and open the door for me?”

“I can’t - move -”

“Focus on my voice, Y/N. Come downstairs, open the door. Then I can help you. We can figure out what’s going on, together. Please, can you do that for me? Just come and open the door. Then you can stay downstairs.” You could hear him jiggling the locked door of the building entrance. “Y/N-” Another voice, in the background. You couldn’t make out words; you couldn’t focus. “Okay, someone let me in, I’m inside now. What floor are you on?”

“Four. But my apartment’s on seven.”  _Lie lie lie_. “I went down a few floors after I heard him.”

You could feel Steve now. He was climbing stairs two at a time. “You’re sure it’s a man?”

Your voice quivered. It was small. A whisper. “Isn’t it always?”

You could hear Steve sighing on the other end. You had your answer. 

He startled you when he finally appeared, hand gentle on your arm. Ice water flushed your system again, and you found yourself standing. 

“I’ll go up, alright?” he said softly. “You don’t have to come.”

But there was something  _wrong_. Besides the man in your apartment. Besides the implications that came with that. You found your feet moving up the stairs, following Steve as he glanced over his shoulder at you with a concerned look.

You came to the seventh floor. Your apartment was just across from the stairwell. You could see the door hadn’t been broken into. Steve was right, he had gone through the fire escape. 

You handed Steve your keys, and he unlocked the door. “Stay in the hall, alright?” But you weren’t listening to his words. You were focused on the man inside. 

_How strange._

_How strange._

Steve opened the door slowly, carefully stepping into your apartment. You walked forward until you were at the door frame, where you stopped.  
He turned on the light.

What happened next was quick. The man, whose appearance you barely had time to register, stood, took out a pocket knife, and threw it. It met your sleeve where your hand was placed on the frame and stuck into the wall, deep. 

Steve immediately went for him, throwing punches and blocking hits where he could. You desperately began pulling at the handle of the knife; when that didn’t work, you pulled at your arm, trying to tear the fabric of your sleeve. 

You glanced back at Steve, only to find the man advancing on you. You would have screamed, except.

Except.

_How strange._

_How strange._

_Empty._

_Empty._

_Can’t see._

_Can’t see._

Steve tackled the man from behind and you refocused you attention to your sleeve. You managed to rip the fabric and you ran out the door and down the hall, tripping on your feet in the process. You breathed, hard. You stared at the floor, not moving.

You could hear Steve’s footsteps coming down the hall. You didn’t look at him.

“He ran off through the fire escape,” he said. His entire tone had shifted. “Do you know who that was?”

Your eyes were wide, confused. “I couldn’t…I couldn’t see…I couldn’t  _see_ … .”

_How strange._

_How strange._

His mind was almost a blank slate. You’d never seen that before. You didn’t even know that that was possible.

“Y/N.” Steve’s voice was firm, cutting through the haze your mind had previously returned to. “Do you know why he was there? Do you know why he was after you?”

_Lie._

_Lie._

_Lie._

“No,” you said. Of course you knew. But you couldn’t tell him that. You couldn’t tell anyone. “No.”

You wanted Washington to be different. It wasn’t.

“We have to go.” Steve helped you to your feet. “Your apartment’s been compromised, we can’t stay here anymore.” He led you down the stairs and out of the building. You stood on the side of the curb as Steve tried to hail a taxi.

“I saw him before,” he said, his eyes searching for a cab. “Earlier tonight. He shot someone I know. The paramedics were carrying him off when you called me. We have to go to the hospital to make sure he’s okay.”

Your mind was beginning to clear. The panic that had once overwhelmed you was washing away, like water circling down a drain. “Who is he? The man in my apartment, the man who shot your friend?”

A taxi finally slowed down in front of the two of you. “I don’t know,” Steve said. “That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I promise you’ll get to see Bucky more in later chapters. If you haven’t noticed, this story is being separated in parts, Part 1 being sort of the set up to the Bucky x Reader. So, depending on the pacing of the story and how much is put into each chapter, he might be in the next one or the one after that. I hope you’re enjoying the story! Thanks for reading!


	3. Part 1 - Chapter Three: Broken Promises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve asks you about your past. The man in your apartment finally catches up to you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So I’m changing a small part of the movie that’s going to be in this chapter. I’m removing the character Agent Sitwell just because it makes the story flow better without his interrogation scene (the one where Natasha kicks him off the roof, as badass as that is), and so he’s not in the car with Steve, Nat, and Sam when they get attacked by the Winter Soldier (which leaves room for YOU to sit in the back with them). Anyway this is just here in case anyone was wondering why I skipped over that part. ALSO I'm gonna shorten the Winter Soldier fight scene just because I don’t want to be just summarizing it instead of actually getting to the story part.

\- [dvoyd](http://dvoyd.tumblr.com/post/167606444278)

You sat in the waiting room of the hospital for a very long time. Although the intense panic you experienced earlier was ebbing away, you couldn’t help but be worried. You weren’t stupid, you knew that the man in your apartment would come back for you — you just didn’t know when, or where, or how. **  
**

Steve was with a red-headed woman when he came back. They spoke in hushed tones as they walked over, but ceased their talk as they approached you.

You stood. “How’s your friend?” you asked. Steve put his hands on his hips; he shook his head. You didn’t need to ask what that meant.

“This is Natasha,” he said instead. “We work together.”

The red-headed woman — Natasha — regarded you somewhat suspiciously. You offered her a similar sentiment.

“That means she’s part of S.H.I.E.L.D., right?” you asked, but it wasn’t really a question. Everyone was acting uneasy and it was starting to affect you. It wasn’t just that a man was waiting for you in your apartment, or that the  _same_  man had shot and killed Steve’s friend. There was something else going on, and you weren’t even sure if Steve or Natasha really knew what that was.

Natasha’s head tilted slightly. “I am part of S.H.I.E.L.D., yes. And what is it that you do? Steve didn’t say.” Her tone was almost friendly, but the attitude didn’t match her eyes.

Steve mumbled something to her under his breath. It sounded like “ _Nat_ ”. If you had been someone else, maybe you wouldn’t have heard, or understood. But Steve’s mind was chastising her.  _Don’t start interrogating her_ , he thought.  _We don’t need that right now._

Getting lost in people’s thoughts happened sometimes; you had to train yourself to focus on what people were saying  _out loud_ , that way you could answer without pause and none would be the wiser to the brief intrusion.

But this time, you unfortunately took a few seconds longer than necessary to speak. “I’m a translator,” you said. You knew the delay would make you sound guilty, and it did. You silently berated yourself for the slip-up. Natasha gave you a nod in return, her face a perfect blank slate, never showing her cards. But behind her eyes, within her mind, her thoughts were whirring.

Steve took a step closer to you, giving a brief glance back at Natasha before speaking. “We have to go.”

Natasha uncrossed her arms, her facade cracking slightly, although her voice remained steady. “She’s coming with us?” It sounded like a trivial inquiry, but there was surprise there.  _Don’t be stupid, Steve_ , she thought.

“No,” he said to Natasha. Your eyebrows rose and Steve returned his attention to you almost immediately. “I’m taking you somewhere safe, so don’t worry, okay? Natasha and I won’t be long. We’ll come back.”

You were surprised by the smallness of your voice when you finally spoke. “Steve, what’s going on?”

He sighed. He seemed to do that a lot. Steve moved as close as he could to put his hands on your upper arms. His head tilted down to meet your eyes. “I don’t know,” he said truthfully. “But that’s what me and Natasha are going to go figure out. Y/N, do you trust me?”

Trust was difficult for you. You understood that Steve was trust _worthy_ , but whether or not that meant that you trusted him was something else entirely. You decided to be honest. “I don’t know.”

His eyes flickered downwards in fleeting disappointment before plastering on a reassuring smile. “That’s okay. Either way, I promise I’m gonna be straight with you when I figure all this out, alright? But I need you to be straight with me, too. Can you do that? Can you promise you’ll me honest with me?”

Your stomach twisted. If you had been in a movie, maybe you would have crossed your fingers behind your back.

“I promise,” you lied.

 

* * *

 

Steve dropped you off at the house of a man named Sam Wilson. He was very kind to you, funny, offered to make you food. Steve and Natasha left and didn’t say where they were going, only that they would be back as soon as they could.

You couldn’t eat anything, as good as the food that Sam made smelled. You were all up in knots, ever since Steve left. Suddenly you had time to worry again, about the man who was after you, how he found you, why he was after you. The lie you told. Lies, plural.

Your growing sense of dread only increased when Steve and Natasha returned hours later, looking absolutely awful, covered in soot and small cuts. But it wasn’t their physical appearance so much as the looks on their faces that concerned you the most. It took a great deal of restraint to keep from peaking inside their minds — Steve promised he would be straight with you, that he would tell you the truth about what was going on. And from what you could tell, they found it.

Sam had a couple different spare rooms in his home. He told you he would take in homeless veterans from time-to-time, people who came back from war to find that they had nothing. Some of them weren’t even homeless, they were just lost, lost in life. He’d help them, then send them on their way when they were stable enough. This simple tidbit of information told you everything you needed to know about Sam Wilson, without even looking into his head.

You decided you were going to let Steve tell you everything he’d discovered in the morning. He and Natasha needed to clean up, and it was obvious that they’d had a hard day. It was likely they were exhausted.

But instead of being in the bed that Sam had so generously offered to you, you were in his kitchen sitting on one of the stools. Head resting on your hands, you thought about everything that had happened in the past 48 hours. Yesterday you needed paper and pens. Today you were hiding from a man who either wanted to capture or kill you. Oh, God, you hadn’t even considered which one it was. No, no, it was capture. The knife he threw at you pierced your sleeve, and he didn’t strike you as someone who had bad aim.

You rubbed your eyes.  _Fuck_. Paper and pens. You completely forgot you were supposed to start your job today. You didn’t even think to call. Your cellphone was new so you had only given your apartment phone number to your work. No doubt they had called with no response. Maybe it was for the best. You doubted you’d be able to stay in Washington after this. Wouldn’t be safe.

“Hey.”

You put your hands down and looked to your side where Steve was inching forward. His voice was soft, as if he didn’t want to startle you.

“Can I sit?” he asked. You nodded, and he took the stool next to you. “I wanted to talk to you earlier, but Sam said you went to bed.”

“I thought it’d be better to talk to you in the morning. It seems like you two went through a lot.”

 _That’s a understatement_ , his expression seemed to say. There was a pause of silence. He leaned on the table and looked at you. “So, can’t sleep?” he asked, not unkindly.

“No,” you said.

“Are you worried?” he asked in a gentle voice. “About the man who came after you?”

“Yes.” You thought about how you promised to tell him the truth. You decided to be honest, in that moment. “Also…I get nightmares, sometimes.”

“About what?” he prompted, his eyes searching yours as if he was looking for something.

“Nothing you should worry about,” you said, you  _lied_.

Steve was quiet for a beat before sighing and folding his hands on the table. “I promised you I would be straight with you. I know you said it could wait until morning, but… .”

Your eyebrows knitted together. “So what is it?”

“How much do you know about what the Howling Commandos and I did in World War Two?” he asked.

You gave him a strange look. “…There were some high school history lessons I remember. And I visited the Smithsonian the day before…the day before I met you. Why?”

“What do you remember about Hydra?”

“Hydra?” you repeated. An image of a Grecian mythical creature briefly came to mind. “That was the Nazi organization that you fought against, right? What does that have to do with the man who came after me?”

Steve sighed, again. “As it turns out, Hydra infiltrated S.H.I.E.L.D. They did it when S.H.I.E.L.D. was first being created and they’ve been hiding inside ever since.”

You blinked rapidly, processing this. “Hydra… _within_  S.H.I.E.L.D.? Do they know? What happened to you and Natasha when you were gone?”

“S.H.I.E.L.D. doesn’t know,” he said. “Well, Nick Fury knew. Or suspected. He was the Director of S.H.I.E.L.D.; the man we went to the hospital for. They killed him and they tried to kill us with a missle when we went looking for information. But as for the agents working for S.H.I.E.L.D.? No, they don’t know. We’re not sure how heavily its been compromised so we can’t exactly broadcast what we know right now.”

You were starting to put the pieces together. “The man in my apartment,” you said slowly, “he was sent by Hydra, wasn’t he? That’s how I fit in all of this?”

“Yes, he was sent by Hydra. They call him the Winter Soldier. According to Natasha, he’s a ghost story; we don’t know a whole lot about him.” Steve looked at you steadily. “But as for how  _you_  fit into all of this… .Y/N, you promised you’d be straight with me. Do you know anything? Do you have any idea why Hydra might be after you? Anything at all, even if you think it’s not important.”

You were going to Hell for lying to Captain America, the most honest man alive, you knew. But it didn’t matter. It couldn’t. You couldn’t tell him the truth. Not him. Not anyone. It was too dangerous. For you, and for him. So you lied, and not for the last time. “I told you, I don’t know.”

Steve’s mouth twisted slightly, as if he was disappointed with the answer. Then he seemed uncomfortable. Your eyes narrowing, you tilted your head as you surveyed him. He took a breath. “Look, don’t be angry with Natasha, alright? She’s a spy, she’s naturally suspicious of people.”

You weren’t following, but you were sure whatever it was he was talking about it wasn’t good. He registered the confused look on your face and continued.

“She went digging through your file. Anything that has your name on it, it’s somewhere she can find online. Getting information…it’s what she does. I don’t know how she gets it, it’s not exactly public domain, but she finds a way. Things like parking tickets, adoption papers…”

Your eyes flickered down at that, but he continued all the same.

“…police reports.”

You didn’t look at him. You didn’t want to hear what you knew he would tell you about the report Natasha found.

You wished you could forget.

You wished you could forget.

You wished you could forget.

“I don’t remember the date she said, but I remember thinking you probably would’ve been in your early twenties, right?”

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t look at him.

He hesitated briefly before going on. “Natasha said the report said someone called 9-1-1 when they saw you walk out of an abandoned building on the outskirts of the city, covered in blood…not wearing much. The medical report from the hospital you were sent to said there were small to large lacerations over your body, ranging from old to new; the report concluded that it was likely due to torture over a roughly two week period.”

 _Stop_.

 _Please stop_.

“The police checked the basement of the building you came out of,” Steve went on. You could tell he was trying to be gentle, but he was also making a point. There was a reason he was telling you that he knew about this. You had a feeling the reason had to do with how you promised to tell him the truth and then didn’t. “There were about six men down there, all with fatal injuries. Some gunshot wounds to the head, some knife wounds. But all self-inflicted.”

You couldn’t breathe.

You couldn’t breathe.

“They found chains that were attached to the wall, strange symbols… .The report concluded that it was most likely some kind of cult ritual that you narrowly escaped.” You could tell he was trying to get you to look at him, but you were covering your face with your hands now. “Y/N…why didn’t you tell me about that?”

You had a nervous tick. You removed your hands from your face and scratched your wrists instead, the tattoo that was there, the black double bands that circled each. You scratched as if you could rip them off, free yourself of your burden.

“ _You didn’t need to know_.” The words came out a broken sob, but angry, too. You scrubbed at the hot tears escaping your eyes. You scratched at your wrists, what they symbolized.

“You were kidnapped and tortured for a reason,” he said, not unkindly, but certainly bordering on strained. “And now Hydra wants you. I can’t help but think that it’s connected.”

“What are you asking me?” you said, wanting to get to the point as quickly as possible and end the havoc that the flashbacks were wreaking on your mind.

He gave you a hard look, but his eyes were soft. “What do you know about the men who kidnapped you before?”

“ _Nothing_.” A lie. They told you who they were. An organization who wanted to use you. Steve was right. They weren’t Hydra but they had wanted the same things.

“Why were they torturing you?”

Words were becoming difficult. “They kept asking me questions I couldn’t answer.” That wasn’t a lie. They wanted you to confirm what you were. You couldn’t do that. They hurt you instead.

_You wished you could forget._

_You wished you could forget._

_You wished you could forget._

“What kind of questions?”

“I don’t know. I don’t remember.” Lie. You stood abruptly, a strangled sob leaving your mouth. “They were  _hurting_  me. Forgive me if there are things I chose to  _forget_.” Truth. The one thing you couldn’t remember was your escape — only the blood afterwards. The blood that wasn’t yours.

Steve stood up with you and gently took your hands in his, stopping you from scratching your wrists raw. Slowly, he wrapped his arms around you. You cried into his shoulder, your tears staining his shirt.

“You can’t let them take me,” you whispered into the crook of his neck. “ _Please_. You can’t let it happen again.”

His hand moved up and down your back, in a motion meant to be soothing. “I won’t,” he said. “I promise.”

 

* * *

 

Steve and Natasha told Sam everything about what was going on. Apparently there was something else even more pressing — something that had to do with the helicarriers that were meant to go online in less than 16 hours, something about an algorithm meant to calculate dangerous or potentially dangerous people and eliminate them. This bit of information was just a cherry on top of everything else. You wondered if the algorithm would be able to single you out, to figure out what you could do and what you were capable of.

Cars whooshed by on the freeway as Sam drove at a speed that was probably over the speed limit, passing other vehicles left and right as you made your way to Washington’s S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters, where the helicarriers were. Steve sat in the passenger’s side as you and Natasha sat in the back. They would have left you at Sam’s, but ultimately they decided it was probably safer to keep you close.

It wasn’t.

The roof of the car was dented as someone landed on top, and you shrieked in surprised. You saw Natasha looking out the window and followed her gaze, barely glimpsing the hand wrapped around the gun before it disappeared up, and Natasha threw herself forward in the car; she used her body to pull Steve out of the path of bullets that came from the ceiling. Sam slammed on the breaks and a body flew off the top.

It was the man from your apartment.

He used his metal arm — he had a  _metal_  arm, did you not notice that before? — to stop himself, his hand digging into the concrete of the road.

The four of you stared at him in shock for a moment as he straightened up. You saw Natasha pull a gun on him —

Your body was jolted forward as a black van rammed into the back of the car, propelling it on until the car hit the Soldier and he flew up on to it. Sam desperately hit the brakes but the van was stronger. You made yourself small in the backseat, you mind going into overdrive.

You  _screamed_  when the Soldier smashed his arm into the windshield and pulled the steering wheel right out of Sam’s hands. Natasha shot at him and he jumped onto the van behind you. The car, without a steering wheel, began spinning out of control.

Steve grabbed you from the backseat. “Hang on!” he yelled, and the four of you huddled together as the car flipped and Steve used his shield to detach the door from the car. You all slid on his shield down the road.

Your head was spinning. Natasha was the one who pulled you up and pushed you to the side as suddenly a  _rocket launcher_  was being shot in your direction. It hit Steve’s shield, who went flying off the highway bridge. You scrambled on the ground, looking up to find the Soldier was the one with the rocket launcher in his hands.

Other men with guns started shooting in Natasha and Sam’s direction as they hid behind a car. You were watching  _him_  instead of hiding, instead of doing what any sane person would do.

_How strange._

_How strange._

You saw one of the men turn his gun in your direction, but the Soldier caught the barrel of it before he could shoot. Of course. Hydra wanted you alive. You were no use to them dead.

You felt someone catch your arm and pull you up and across the bridge. It was Natasha. “Hold onto me!” she yelled at you, and before you could understand what she was doing, she grabbed you and jumped off the bridge as an explosion followed. You wrapped your arms around her as she shot a grappling hook that allowed you to swing to the ground.

The landing was a rough one. You would have more than a few bruises from today. But Natasha barely let you catch your breath before pulling you up again and tugging you along. “Run!” she shouted at you, propelling you forward.

You didn’t look back. You didn’t look to see where Steve had landed. You had tunnel vision, only seeing what was in front of you, barely hearing the screams and gunfire and explosions that were on your heels. You ran, as fast as your feet could take you, your lungs  _begging_  you to stop and take a proper breath.

You ran until you came to a street where you finally stopped and hid behind a car, your breathing heavy and desperate. Your head felt dizzy. You put your hand over your mouth, trying to be quiet.

You could tell the fighting was getting closer, but you couldn’t move. Your body was going into a state of shock.

You could feel Steve was close. You could hear the sound of him fighting someone else, hand-to-hand. Suddenly, a body was flung into the car you were hiding behind, and it jolted. You weren’t hurt, but you let out an involuntary cry. You covered your mouth again, praying no one heard you.

The grip that yanked on your arm was answer enough. You shrieked as the Winter Soldier pulled you to him, locking you in place against his chest with his metal arm and began dragging you down the street. He must have found a gun on the ground by the car because he began shooting at —

“ _STEVE_!” you cried, absolutely desperate. Tears were blurring your vision and you fought the Soldier’s hold. “ _STEVE **—**  PLEASE_ **—** _H E L P_ ” you screamed at the top of your lungs.

_Don’t let it happen again._

_Don’t let it happen again._

_Don’t let it happen again._

“Y/N!” you heard Steve yell, but he was holding up his shield, blocking the Soldier’s gunfire. He couldn’t help you. He couldn’t help you.

You needed to  _do something_.

Before you could even think about what you were doing, the arm that wasn’t pinned in the Soldier’s grasp reached up and you pressed your hand to his head.

The both of you froze, eyes glazing over. You thought you heard the sound of his gun clattering to the ground.

Before, you couldn’t see anything. You thought his mind was empty. But it wasn’t, it was just…broken. In pieces. Fragmented.

The Soldier released his grip on you and you fell to the ground, blinking as you returned to the world. You gazed up at him, mouth open, a curious look on your face.

“What did they  _do_  to you?” you whispered as he stared back at you, his eyes…his  _blue_  eyes…confused.

“ _Y/N_!” you heard Steve shout. You had just turned your head to see him running toward you when you felt a sharp poke in your neck, and the world went black. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Reminder that this story updates on tumblr first and then I upload it on AO3 when I get the chance, which could be hours or a day later depending on how busy I am. If you have a tumblr and want to be added to the tag list, message me here: pandalandalopalis.tumblr.com


	4. Part 1 - Chapter Four: Purple and Red

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You've been captured by Hydra. You ask the Soldier for help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Graphic violence warning for this chapter. The rating of the story has been changed to Mature.

The world was fuzzy when you finally came to consciousness. Like washing up onto shore, desperate to dispel water from your lungs, you were desperate to clean the noise from your head. You could hear voices but they were hard to understand as you woke from your drug-induced sleep.

You were in some sort of containment room, that much you could tell. Three of the walls were concrete, but the fourth wall, the one in front of you, was glass — or, or hard plastic, maybe? Either way, you could see through it to the other side, where blurs and shapes were beginning to clear.

A group of people were standing in the centre of the room, around what appeared to be some sort of technological contraption with screens and buttons — in the middle was a chair, and in that chair was a man.

_You. It’s you._

Your mind seemed to find him before your eyes did. The metal arm was a dead giveaway, but this was your first time seeing his face without any sort of covering. He looked… .

Sad. Confused. Unsure.

He was sitting profile to your direction, so you doubted he or any of the other people in the room were aware of your consciousness. Not yet, anyway. There was a part of you that knew you should be panicking, that knew that as soon as their attention left the Soldier, it would turn to you. But you weren’t thinking about that; your focus was on  _him_.

“But I  _knew_  him,” were the first clear words you heard, and they came from the Soldier. Slowly, you reached your mind out to him, sifting through void and darkness until you came to a memory, solid and complete.

_A blond man stood in front of you, a look of utter shock and disbelief written over his face. His mouth hung open, his shield at his side._

_“Bucky?” he said, confusion dripping off the name._

_You took a step forward, unfazed by the man’s seemingly random outburst. “Who the hell is Bucky?”_

It lasted only a second, but you were left feeling like you were missing something. The blond man in his memory, it was Steve Rogers, and the location was from today (Today? Yesterday? You weren’t sure how long you’d been unconscious.) where the Soldier had taken you hostage. The way Steve had said that name… _Bucky_ …it was like he knew the Soldier, like he was calling his name.

Bucky. Why was that familiar? Your mind was still recovering from the drug; you couldn’t think hard enough.

You swam out of your thoughts and returned to the present. “Wipe him,” the man standing in front of the Soldier was saying.  _Wipe him?_  You pressed your hand to the glass (it was glass, it was cold under your fingers) and watched with narrowing eyes.

One of the people in the room stuck something into the Soldier’s mouth and they leaned him back in the chair. A piece of technology rested on his head, followed by the buzzing of a machine starting up.

The pain was excruciating.

You could  _feel_  it, you could feel what they were doing to him. Your hands pressed to your mouth to keep from screaming and drawing attention to yourself. His memories of the past day flitted in your mind before being  _decimated_ , splintered into a thousand pieces and scattered to the farthest reaches of the empty that was the inside of his head.

 _Wipe him_. They were wiping away his memories.

 

He was as much a hostage here as you were.

 

* * *

 

You didn’t see them take him away, you were curled into the corner of your room, your eyes squeezed shut. But when you finally opened them, he was gone.

Instead, the man who had been talking to him earlier, the man who gave the order to erase his memories, was standing outside of your room. He was looking at you, his hands clasped behind his back. He smiled when he saw that your eyes were no longer closed.

“Good to see you’re finally awake,” he said.

You scowled at him, saying nothing. The man leaned his arm on the glass, drumming his fingers on the surface. “Do you know why you’re here?”

 _Yes_. “No.”

He hummed at that. “Do you know who I am?”

You didn’t, but it didn’t take much to slip inside his mind and find out. His name was Alexander Pierce. He was a senior officer at S.H.I.E.L.D. He was also a Hydra double-agent. Not surprising considering what you had seen earlier. “No,” you said, despite the information you had just learned.

He hummed again. The sound was beginning to annoy you. “You know, that’s interesting. I expected a telepath to be more aware of everything going on around her.”

Panic curled within you but you forced your mouth to open and your eyebrows to knit together, both in confusion. You made your eyes blink several times before speaking. “A telepath? Is that what you think I am?”

Pierce’s smile became strained. “That’s what I  _know_  you are. It’s what my intel tells me. I’ve been tracking you for some time, now. It took while to put a name to your face, but eventually everything comes to light.”

 _Like how Hydra has been hiding within S.H.I.E.L.D. since its founding?_  you thought briefly, but it was difficult to think clearly when your breathing was becoming increasingly shallow. “Look,” you started, swallowing, “I don’t know who you are, or what you want from me, but I am  _not_  who you think I am.  _Please_. Just—”

Pierce hit his fist against the glass, silencing you. “What I  _want_ , Miss L/N, is what you were chosen for. And you were chosen to be a weapon.  _Your_  choice is whether or not you’re going to be a willing participant, helping us with our work.”

You shook your head. “I  _don’t know_  what you’re  _talking about_ ,” you said desperately.

Pierce sighed, then motioned to a couple men behind him. They moved forward to the door, unlocking it.

You stood immediately, pressing your back to the wall. “What are you doing?”

Another man brought in a chair as the first two men grabbed your arms on either side. You struggled as he put down the chair in the middle of the small room and they forced you down into it.

“Stop,  _please_ ,” you begged them, although you knew it wouldn’t do any good. They cuffed your hands and feet to the chair. You twisted and turned your wrists, trying to free yourself to no avail. “You don’t have to do this, I’m not the person you want!”

Pierce strolled inside the room as the other men left. He leaned down to level his face with yours, not unlike the way he was speaking to the Soldier before he wiped his memories. “You’ve made your choice now, Miss L/N. I had hoped you might have chosen to be a  _willing_ participant, it certainly would have made things less…” he rested his hand on one of the restraints, “…messy, but I’ve dealt with unwilling persons before.” He straightened and turned his head slightly to the side. One of the men waiting outside the room entered and stood at attention at the gesture. “Call one of our jets and tell them they’ll be flying to Sokovia tomorrow with a very important passenger.” The man nodded and left. Pierce returned his attention back to you. “Perhaps our asset there will be able to convince you to be more compliant.”

 _Sokovia?_  You couldn’t go to Sokovia. If you went to Sokovia you were done, there would be no escaping them then. You pulled at the restraints. Your tone became more panicked by the second. “ _Please_! You have to listen to me! I’m not who you think I am — I am  _not a telepath_!”

Pierce ignored your pleas and left the room, one of the men locking it behind him. You kept on your begging until he left your field of vision, and even then you continued with screaming your (feigned) innocence.

Exhaustion seeped into your bones, your throat raw, and eventually you were left with hiccuping sobs. You couldn’t breathe. You didn’t know what to do.

Soon, you were too tired to even cry. You looked down at your bound wrists. The tattooed bands were covered, but you could still see the orange ink design that ran from the outside edges of the tips of your pinky fingers, down your hands, and under the black bands on your wrists, where you knew it continued up your arms, over your shoulders, spreading like wildfire as it finished across your back.  _This is your fault_ , you thought as you stared down at the tattoo, at your hands, flexing them. _I didn’t want this. We wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you._

Your contemplation was broken suddenly by the sound of footsteps.

No, not a sound. A feeling. A feeling that went with the sound.

The Winter Soldier himself was walking across the outer room, right in front of your cell.

“Hey,” you called, but your voice was hoarse and it was quiet. He didn’t even look at you. “Hey!” you repeated, louder this time. He continued without a single change in expression.

You struggled in your seat.

_HEY!_

His stride stuttered, and he stopped. He looked at you, his expression cracking slightly, his eyes narrowed. The two of you stared at each other for what seemed like a long time.

“Do you remember me?” you finally asked in a small voice, although you knew the answer.

He paused before answering. “No.”

Your eyes glanced to the machine, the machine that broke his mind — how many times, you couldn’t say. “You don’t remember me because they used that on you. Because they  _erased_  your memories. Probably not for the first time, either.”

He gave you a look like the information was of no consequence to him, but you could feel that he was becoming uneasy. You made a decision.

You pushed the image of Steve into his head. The memory.

_“Bucky?”_

_“Who the hell is Bucky?”_

The Soldier came striding up to the glass, placing his flesh hand on the surface. “What was that? What did you do?”

“I can help you,” you breathed. “They took your memories away from you but I can  _give them back_. I can help you figure out who you were before. I can  _help_  you; all I ask in return is that you help me out of here.  _Please_. I don’t know what they’re planning to do with me, but I know it won’t be good. We can help each other. Neither of us have to work for Hydra, not anymore. Please,  _help me_ , and I can help you.”

He almost seemed to consider it for a moment, his eyes searching yours through the glass. But then, wordlessly, he removed his hand from the surface and kept walking on.

 

* * *

 

It would be hours before you saw another person. The place they held you didn’t have windows, so you had no idea whether it was day or night, or exactly how much time had passed.

At some point several men came in holding large guns, waiting outside of the cell as one of them unlocked it and entered.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he said. The tone brought bile into your mouth. “Ready to go?”

“Listen to me,” you tried to keep your voice steady but it was desperate, “I am  _not_ —”

“—The person we’re looking for, yeah, yeah, I heard,” he interrupted. “Unfortunately, the boss seems to think that you are, so my hands are kind of tied over here.” He wandered over to you, placing his hands over your wrists and leaning into your space. “You know, I can make this ride a whole lot smoother for you.”

Your stomach twisted. You felt like you were going to throw up. “ _Please let me go._ ”

“I’m starting to think that you might be telling the truth, sweetheart,” he said, but you knew better than to feel hopeful about the statement. “I mean, if you were really what they say you are, wouldn’t you have escaped by now?” He hummed. You could feel his breath on your face. “I don’t think you’ll hurt me, honey; I don’t think you could.” His hand was on your thigh now.

There was no Steve Rogers to save you this time.

“ _Stop_ ,” you whispered. You wished your voice was bigger. Another hand reached under your shirt, to the bareness of your stomach. You struggled against the restraints. The hand on your thigh moved to the buttons on your pants, while the other hand skimmed your bra and rested on your shoulder, splaying across the tattoo there.

“ _STOP!_ ” A purple colour filled the irises of your eyes, like poison seeping into your veins. A different sort of haze replaced the panic, and the man removed his hands and stood.

A drunkenness, a high, numbed your body and mind. “Remove the restraints,” you told him, your voice dripping with the same poison that coloured your irises. He took out his keys, his eyes glazed over, and unlocked the cuffs around your hands and feet.

Once you were free, you stood and rubbed your wrists. The men outside of the cell were none the wiser, facing away from the glass wall and ignoring what was happening inside.

The man within the cell blinked as if he was waking up. His face twisted and he reached for you. You raised your hand. He stopped. His hand went to the knife at his hip. He lifted the blade and pressed it to his throat without hesitation, dragging a steady line across it. Thick, hot blood sprayed your face. You blinked.

There was a part of you, a small part of you drowning under the purple haze that was  _begging_ you to stop. But you didn’t want to stop. You wanted to continue.

The men outside were paying attention now. They were yelling and holding up their guns and pointing them at you as you stepped closer to the entrance of the cell. Instead of walking out, you pressed your hand flat on the glass.

Some of the men shot themselves; some shot each other. They died either way, bleeding pools onto the smooth floor. You stepped out of the cell. Blood seeped into your shoes as you walked over the bodies and made your way out.

 

* * *

 

Waking up from your power-drunk high always left behind a hangover of depression and guilt, insomnia or nightmare-filled sleep, hopelessness and anger. It was bad when you had woken up in the hospital all those years ago, after you had escaped the people who had kidnapped you off the street and tortured you; and it was bad now.

But this was different. You had killed the population of  _one_  Hydra building. You didn’t know how many undercover Hydra agents there were, but you knew there were many more where that came from.

You weren’t sure how or why you ended up at the Smithsonian, but there you were. You half-remembered cleaning the blood from your face, scrubbing as if you belonged within a particular Shakespeare play. You half-remembered putting on a coat to cover the blood on your clothes, although you don’t remember where you got the coat. You think you ordered a taxi, but you don’t remember getting in, you don’t remember the ride, and you don’t remember getting out.

What you know now is that you’re walking through the museum, with no idea the destination. You walked for a long time; you walked until your feet ached. You still didn’t see the point of where you were.

But then.

But then.

 _Oh_.

Like the first instance you came into contact with him, and almost every time after that, you felt him before you saw him. You were in the Captain America exhibit of the museum now. He had his hair tied back and he was wearing a hat. He was looking at the section on Bucky Barnes.

 _Oh_. Oh.

Steve called him Bucky. Bucky like Bucky Barnes. Bucky like Steve Roger’s best friend. Captain America’s right hand man.  _Oh_.

He didn’t look at you when you stood next to him, but you knew he had acknowledged your presence.

“Looks like you didn’t need my help after all,” he said.

“I did.”  You felt like you were breaking. You scratched at your wrists. “I shouldn’t’ve had to do that. Now Hydra knows for sure what I am. Now they’ll never stop chasing me.”

He continued to stare ahead as he spoke. “What do you think would’ve happened if they  _had_ decided that you weren’t who they thought you were? I know you’re not naive enough to think that they would’ve let you go.”

You crossed your arms over your body, hugging yourself. “If it meant that they wouldn’t have made me hurt anyone, then I could’ve lived with that.”

“No, you wouldn’t have.” His eyes — blue, so, so blue — were on you now. “Because they would have killed you. Because Hydra doesn’t leave loose ends.”

His eyes went back to the exhibit when you looked at him. You followed his gaze to the picture of Bucky Barnes. There was a brief silence between the two of you.

“My second day in the city I visited the Smithsonian,” you said. “I visited this exhibit.” You glanced at him. “I knew you looked familiar somehow.”

“What do you want from me?”

You turned your body to him. “Let me help you. I can fix your memories, put them back together. I’m not saying it would be easy, or quick, but I could do it.”

He turned his head to you, his eyes narrowed. “Why would you help me?”

You shrugged. “Would you believe me if I said I’m doing it out of the goodness of my heart?”

His expression didn’t change, but you got the point.

You sighed. “Fine. If you need a reason so badly then how about this: Hydra knows what I am now. I can’t afford to let them catch me again; I  _won’t_  let them catch me again. I need you to help me run from them. Don’t forget, Hydra is probably looking for you, too. We go on the run together; you keep Hydra from capturing me and I piece your memories back together.”

He glanced back at the exhibit. He was quiet for a long time.

 

“Okay.”

 

End Part 1


	5. Part 2 - Chapter Five: Bruises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve makes a discovery. Your first memory session with Bucky doesn’t go so well.

Steve shifted in his hospital bed for the sixth time in five minutes. The bed wasn’t exactly uncomfortable, but being bed _ridden_  was making his limbs antsy. He needed to get up; he needed to move. Only he couldn’t. Because he was in the hospital.

He had been conscious for about a day and a half, but it already felt a day and a half too long. Sam was there when he woke up, which helped, but he needed  _out_. He needed to find his best friend, he needed to help fix the mess with Hydra.

As he was contemplating signing himself out against doctor’s orders, Natasha strolled into his hospital room, a casual smile on her face. Steve knew better. Her smile was tight; it didn’t reach her eyes. She had a laptop in her hand.

“Hey old man,” she said easily, teasing. “Hip surgery go alright?”

“Nat,” Steve said, devoid of amusement, “what is it?”

Natasha set her expression into something more serious, and she took a seat on his bed. She opened the laptop. “There’s something you need to see.”

It was a video, specifically a security tape. Steve squinted at the black and white. It took him a moment to realize he was seeing Y/N, locked to a chair in a small cell. He sat up, his eyebrows knitting together.

 _“Listen to me,”_  Y/N was saying as a man was standing in front of her,  _“I am not—”_

 _“The person we’re looking for, yeah, yeah, I heard,”_ the man interrupted her.  _“Unfortunately, the boss seems to think that you are, so my hands are kind of tied over here. You know, I can make this ride a whole lot smoother for you.”_

Bile rose to Steve’s throat as the man advanced closer on her.

 _“_   Please let me go. _”_

_“I’m starting to think that you might be telling the truth, sweetheart. I mean, if you were really what they say you are, wouldn’t you have escaped by now? I don’t think you’ll hurt me, honey; I don’t think you could.”_

_“_   Stop.  _”_

Steve looked away as the man began roaming his hands. “Stop the video, I don’t need to see anymore. Just tell me what happened.”

“No,” Natasha said instead. “You need to see this, Steve.”

He gave her a confused look, but forced himself to return his attention to the security tape.

 _“_   STOP!  _”_

Steve watched with surprise as the man took a step back.

_“Remove the restraints.”_

The man did exactly so. Steve’s mouth parted slightly. He didn’t understand what was happening. It wasn’t clicking. It didn’t click — not until the man slit his own throat.

“ _Shit_ ,” Steve hissed. Natasha closed the laptop as the other agents began to shoot each other and themselves. Steve ran a hand down his face. “She lied to us.”

“Yes.”

“She  _lied_  to us. She looked me in the eye and told me she didn’t know why Hydra was after her.”

“I know.”

Steve sighed. “Where is she now?”

Natasha put the laptop next to her on the bed. “I don’t know. There are a few more tapes like this from the rest of the building — to summarize, anyone who came in contact with her ends up dead. We have her on tape leaving the building and I was able to track her for a few hours through traffic cams, but Steve…we found this Hydra building days after this happened. If I had seen the security tape a couple hours after, even a day after, I might have been able to track her to her current location. But for now, I don’t know where she ended up. Steve, I’m sorry. I know you were trying to help her.”

Steve sighed, again. “She’s out of Hydra’s hands now, that’s the important thing. Keep looking for her. There’s a chance that she didn’t know what she was doing when she killed those Hydra agents.”

Natasha nodded and got up, taking the laptop with her. She made it to the door when Steve stopped her.

“And Nat? Erase the security tape from the Hydra building. Hydra may be after her, but I don’t want the United States government to be after her, too.”

 

* * *

 

**A Few Days Earlier**

 

“Okay. Fine.” The Soldier finally broke his attention from the exhibit to look at you. “How do we do this?”

To be honest, you didn’t think you’d get this far. You had showed up at the Smithsonian without any idea why, and you had found the Winter Soldier standing in the middle of the Captain America exhibit. At this point, everything you were doing was improvisation. You thought for a second, licking your lips, your mouth parted as you grasped for what to do next. “… .We need to go somewhere quiet. Somewhere we won’t be interrupted — or found, especially not by Hydra.”

The Soldier took a moment to think, then his eyes began scanning the room, his head moving subtly. It was as if he was looking for something, or…trying to memorize the layout. But before you could ask him what he was doing, he grabbed your arm — not exactly gently — and began pulling you down the hall. He did it in a way that was almost inconspicuous: he had you attached to his side, making it look like he was leading you rather than forcing you along. It was  _almost_  inconspicuous, given your struggle against his strong grip. He was wearing a glove, but you could tell from the lack of warmth that it was his metal hand.

“ _What the hell_ ,” you hissed under your breath as you walked.

“Cameras,” was all he offered. Your eyebrows knitted together and you turned your head to look around. As soon as you looked upwards, the Soldier’s hand reached over and grabbed your jaw, turning your head back. Your eyes grew wide in surprise as you gaped at him, his flesh hand warm on your face. “Don’t. Look.”

You kept staring at him even as he pulled his hand back and the two of you stopped outside a gift shop. “You need something to cover your face,” he said finally. Oh. Of course. Cameras. There were cameras everywhere.

His eyes scanned the shop. “There.” You followed his gaze to a hat rack, with hats like the one he was wearing. He glanced at you. “You’re a telepath. Have the cashier give it to you. Make it look like you’re buying it.”

_No._

_No._

_No._

“I can’t do that,” you whispered. The image of a man pulling a knife across his own throat began to swirl within your mind.

The Soldier’s eyes narrowed at you. “If you can’t make people do what you want, then I’m starting to wonder why Hydra wanted you in the first place.”

You pressed your lips together. “I  _can_ , I just  _won’t_. I won’t make someone do something against their will.”  _Not again._

“How exactly is it that you escaped Hydra? You asked nicely?”

You were barely keeping yourself together. He wasn’t helping. You gritted your teeth together. “I didn’t want to do that. If I had my way, I would’ve stayed there.” Your nails dug into your palms. “I wouldn’t have hurt anyone.”

You could feel his eyes on you but you were staring at the floor, using every bit of strength you had not to fall apart. He opened his mouth, but you beat him to it.

“I have money on me. I’ll  _pay_  for the hat.” You walked forward, but the Soldier caught your arm.

“ _Cash only_.”

You pulled your arm back, probably more roughly than you should have in a public situation. “Fine.”

You moved into the shop, picking a black hat from the rack. It had the Captain America symbol on it, but so did all of them. You were anxious as you waited in line to pay. The Soldier was right — if Hydra recognized you on any of the cameras if wouldn’t take long to find you. And there was no telling how many cameras you had passed on the way here, how many you had passed as you were leaving the Hydra building.

_Keep it together._

Your whole body was shaking by the time you got back to the Soldier, the Captain America hat worn nicely on your head, shadowing your identity. A headache was forming in the centre of your forehead, a pit of pain that was steadily intensifying.

_Did I remember to lock the door?_

_This exhibit is so boring._

_Steve Rogers was born July 4th, 1918, in Brooklyn, New York. His home life was—_

_Wow, the Howling Commandos were so cool!_

_Should I buy this keychain? I have so many already._

_I’m gonna quit my job. I’m gonna do it tomorrow._

_Boom, clap, the sound of my heart, the beat goes on and on and on and on and—_

_Wouldn’t it be cool if Captain America was in this exhibit right now?_

_The Howling Commandos were Captain America’s elite team of—_

_I’m all about that bass, ‘bout that bass— Fuck, why won’t that song get out of my—_

_What exhibit should we visit next?_

The thoughts bombarded you as you read the minds of everyone, all at once, without your own consent. You squeezed your eyes shut and pressed your hand to your head, as if you were attempting to staunch blood-flow from a wound.

“Hey.”

A hand gripped your upper arm, tight — but flesh. You opened your eyes. You hadn’t realized you had leaned against the wall to keep your balance. The Soldier was giving you a steel gaze; it said,  _Keep it together_.

The breath you took was far from steady, but the voices began to fade until they were a quiet whisper at the back of your mind.

“We have to go,” he said. You nodded.

“Okay. Okay.”

“How much cash do you have on you?”

“I-I don’t know. Fifty dollars maybe?”

His eyes flicked back and forth, as if he was calculating options. He seemed to settle on one, because he took your arm and once again began leading you down the hall. This time, you let him.

 

* * *

 

The motel the Soldier found for the two of you was incredibly cheap: in expense, looks, and atmosphere. But it was $40 for the night, meaning tomorrow would be a very different story. For now you at least had hot running water.

You took a shower first. There was still blood on your skin that you hadn’t washed off before. There wasn’t any complementary shampoo, but there was a bar of soap, and that was good enough. The steady stream of water was a white noise that blocked out everything else. A single solitary moment of peace.

You had to put back on your blood-stained clothes when you got out of the shower. The thought was horrifying, but you had nothing else.

The Soldier gave you a once-over when you came out of the bathroom, having not seen what was under your coat earlier. It felt like he was sizing you up, like he was assessing a threat. Thankfully, he said nothing.

You sat down cross-legged in the space in front of the beds. You gestured for the Soldier to sit down in front of you. He did.

“Okay.” You were trying to figure out how to begin. The Soldier’s mind was a void, filled with scattered and broken pieces of memories. Putting that all back together…putting  _over ninety_ _years_ worth of memories back together… .It was going to take some time.

You finally settled on a starting point. “What’s the first thing that you can remember? Your earliest coherent memory?”

His eyebrows knitted together in thought, and you let your mind wander to his. You thought you would find something that was in the Hydra building, like a memory that had to do with him being dragged away after his memory was wiped. But the mind is a funny thing, and it has a tendency to flip around when making associations. You saw the tail-end of a memory with Alexander Pierce, the name  _“Steve Rogers”_  coming out of his mouth — and the thought changed.

_Steve Rogers was pinned underneath you, his face a mosaic of cuts and bruises. Your metal fist was raised, almost hesitating. Debris fell around you, metal creaking and foundations breaking._

_“Then finish it,” Steve said, his breathing harsh. “‘Cause I’m with you ‘till the end of the line.”_

_Tears sprung to your eyes as the words washed over you, a feeling of familiarity beginning to—_

Sudden pain bloomed in your wrist as the Soldier grabbed it harshly with his metal hand, ripping you from his memory. A noise left your mouth as the grip tightened.

“You were in my head,” he  _growled_ , tugging your arm and therefore your upper body forward, leveling his gaze with yours. “I could  _feel_  you in my head.”

You didn’t understand. He  _felt_  you in his head? That didn’t happen. That  _never_  happened. People didn’t know when you intruded inside their mind. They couldn’t.

You thought they couldn’t.

You gaped at him, not knowing what to say. “I’m trying to put your mind back together,” you said when you collected your thoughts. It was hard not to focus on the pain he was inflicting on you. “I need to go inside your head to do that —  _Ah_.” Your breath hissed through your teeth and your eyes shut for a moment before returning them to his. “You’re hurting me.”

His lips were pressed in a tight line; his eyes were narrowed. He didn’t ease up. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes.

“Please.  _Bucky_.”

He blinked and released your wrist at the mention of his name. You took a deep breath and cradled your wrist to your chest, inspecting it. It was definitely going to be bruised tomorrow.

“I’m sorry,” you heard him say quietly, and you were about to snap back something cruel in response, but then you looked up at him and your words failed you.

He was avoiding your gaze. His jaw was clenched, his mouth pulled into a frown. His metal hand was clenched tightly at his side, his eyes…sad.

It occurred to you for the first time since coming in contact with him that maybe he didn’t know his own strength. The time that he had actually spent conscious and not frozen in ice was a delicate combination of hurting, killing, and having his mind erased. To go into his mind without telling him… .He was lashing out in the only way he knew how.

“I shouldn’t have gone inside your head without asking you,” you said in a small voice. “I promise I won’t do it again without letting you know first. Okay?” You tried to catch his eyes, but his jaw just kept clenching and unclenching. “Bucky?”

His head snapped back to you. “Don’t call me that.” His words weren’t harsh. They sounded tired.

“But that’s your name,” you said softly. He shook his head.

“That’s… _his_  name. The man from the 40s. It’s not…me.”

“But it  _is_  you,” you insisted gently. “You’re  _Bucky Barnes_. Howling Commando, Captain America’s best friend.”

“No,” he said firmly. His eyes travelled down to your wrist. “Not anymore.”

The amount of guilt that he must have been feeling in that moment…the way he talked about who he used to be…as if he didn’t  _deserve_  his  _name_ … .It reminded you of your  _own_  guilt. It reminded you of the way  _you_  felt different from who  _you_  used to be.

There would be bruises over your tattoo.

“Then what do you want me to call you?” you asked after a long time.

“I don’t know.”

You thought about it for a moment. “How about James? It’s still your name, but it’s not…it’s not him. He didn’t go by that name.”

He seemed unsure, but after a few seconds he agreed. “Fine. James.”

“Good. Okay.” You took a breath. “Okay.”

 

This was going to take longer than you thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: And so we begin Part 2. You’re going to see a lot more of Bucky Barnes in these next chapters! This chapter was kind of a set up for Part 2, so hopefully there will be more content in the next one. I hope you guys are still liking the story! Thanks for reading!
> 
> ~Comments make the world go round~ ~You never know when I have the next chapter written and I'm waiting for feedback to post it~


	6. Part 2 - Chapter Six: The Corridor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You show the Soldier the memories that you have of him.

“Do you want to stop or do you want to keep going?”

You were trying to catch his eye, but he just kept staring at your wrist, his jaw clenching and unclenching over and over. You were about to call it a night after absolutely zero progress when he finally opened his mouth.

“We can keep going.”

You gave him a small smile that you hoped was reassuring. “Okay.” You took a breath, thinking. “Okay, we’re going to try something different. Instead of going into  _your_  mind, I’m going to show you what  _I_  know. They won’t be your memories, but you’ll be in them, and it’ll give your mind something to build off of.”

He said nothing in response, only nodding silently.

“I’m going to show you something now. Is that okay?”

He hesitated, swallowing. Then he took one last glance at your wrist, and nodded again.

“Alright. Here we go.” You pressed the pads of your pointer and middle finger to your temple. You closed your eyes and thought of the memory.

 

The small hotel room began blurring like paint under water. The colours of the wall, the beds, the floor, all began dripping into each other. Reality washed away, running down and revealing a darker room, not slow and not fast, from top to bottom.

You opened your eyes and found yourself in the small prison room, the room with the glass wall, the room in the Hydra building with the machine that erases memories. The two of you stood on either side of the chair in the middle of the room, the chair that was currently being filled by a past version of yourself.

The Soldier scanned his surroundings, obviously momentarily stunned by the change in scenery. He looked down at you, the past you, for a moment before his head snapped up at the sound of footsteps.

He watched his past self as he crossed the room in front of you.

 _“Hey,”_  your past self said to his past self.  _“Hey!”_

“Do you remember this?” you asked him, the current version of him.

_“Do you remember me?”_

_“No.”_

“Yeah,” he answered.

“This is my last memory of you, before…I escaped,” you explained over your past self as she continued to speak. “But this must be your first memory of me, right?”

He stiffened as his past self advanced on the glass wall, instinct likely preparing him for a possible fight.

_“What was that? What did you do?”_

The Soldier turned his attention to you, the current you, as the past you talked. “You put a memory into my head,” he stated. “ _My_  memory, not yours.”

Suddenly, the truth of what you had done, that you had gone inside his head and  _taken_  that memory…made you feel shameful. “I…I saw that memory before they wiped you. It’s the only one I have that’s yours.”

“… .He was in it. Captain America.”

“I think it’s the first time he recognized you,” you explained.

He nodded, seemingly lost in thought.

 _“Please,_ help me _, and I can help you,”_  your past self was saying. His past self stayed for a moment before leaving you behind.

Both you and your past self shared a similar look as you watched the Soldier’s past self walk away: your past self anxious with what’s to come, your current self horrified at what had passed.

You could feel the Soldier’s eyes on you. “… .What happened after I left?” he asked after a moment.

You avoided looking back at him for what felt like a long time. You turned back to meet his gaze. “We’re going to go back to my first memory of you, now.” You inclined your head. “Come on.”

You walked to the entrance of the small prison room and placed your hand on the handle. Instead of being locked, the door opened at your touch — just not out into the room through the glass. Rather, it opened into a seemingly endless corridor, with doors on each wall that extended on and on and on.

The Soldier, confused, looked through the glass plane to the room on the other side (seeing no evidence of a corridor behind the wall), then through the door again. “What is that?”

You gestured for him to step through, waiting for him to enter before explaining. He hesitated for a second, then stepped around the chair where your past self was bound and walked into the corridor.

You went in after him and closed the door behind you. The corridor was quiet and dimly lit, although it wasn’t difficult to see. The corridor — walls, ceiling, floor, doors — were a deep purple. “This is the visual representation of my subconscious,” you said as he looked around. “It makes it easier to organize memories, find things I’d thought I’d forgotten.”

His attention found you again. “Is this what you’re going to do for my mind?”

“I was considering it. Right now your mind is…well, to put it simply, disorganized. It might be better to create something like this, that way we can start fixing your memories in a structured way. It’ll help your mind help itself, too. If you’re okay with that,” you added, trying to discern his feelings on the matter. He hummed in a sort of non-commital way, his attention no longer on you, but rather on the door next to the one you had just left.

“Why is this door covered in red paint?” he asked, and he pressed his hand to the surface. It came back scarlet.

You could feel the spray of hot liquid on your face as you remembered the man who pulled a knife across his throat. You could hear the gunshots as they men shot each other, shot themselves.

You wished it was red paint.

“This is a visual representation of my mind,” you repeated. “Some of the doors are different.” You swiped the pads of your fingers across the door, looking at the red that came off on your skin. “This reminds me not to go in.” You balled your hand into a fist, and when you opened it, the scarlet was gone.

He looked down at his own hand and did the same. You began leading him down the hall as you looked for the next memory to show him.

“Why?” he asked as he caught up to you.

“I thought a skeleton on the closet would be too on the nose,” you said, giving him a small amused smile.

“Not…why the red paint. Why won’t you go in?” he clarified.  

You hugged yourself, staring at the floor as you walked. “We all have things we wish we could forget.”

He was quiet as the two of you continued down the corridor. It wasn’t long before you came to the door that held the next memory.

“Why don’t you?” he asked.

You gave him a strange look. “Why don’t I what?”

“Forget. You created…all of this. Why not create a place to put things you don’t want to remember anymore?”

You felt like you were grasping for an answer. “I can’t.”

His eyebrows raised. “You can’t?”

You sighed. “I won’t. I’m not saying there aren’t times where I’ve thought about it, but… .It’s something that I was taught when I was younger. The more you want to erase something, the more you’ll try to get that memory back once it’s gone. It’s…human nature. Nobody wants to be told, ‘It’s better if you don’t know’. As much as I want to forget, it’s just…” you took a breath, “not a good idea.”

He didn’t have a response to that, his eyes glancing downwards. He pursed his lips as if he was thinking, then looked up at the door you brought him to. You took that as a sign to continue.

You placed your hand on the door handle, and turned it.

The door opened into a hallway of an apartment complex, specifically  _your_  apartment complex. Ahead of you was the door to your apartment, along with your past self and Steve Rogers. Steve was in the process of unlocking the door.

“That’s him,” the Soldier said, referring to Steve. He turned to look at you. “You know him?”

“This memory is from a few days ago. I had met him in a bar that night. This night. I called him when I felt that there was someone in my apartment.  _You_ ,” you specified.

He gave you a strange look. “I was in your apartment?”

You gestured to the memory ahead of you. The two of you watched as Steve and your past self walked through the door, then your past self was trapped by a knife in her sleeve as Steve went after the man who threw it. The Winter Soldier.

It felt like it was over as soon as it began. Your past self was able to free her hand from the knife and ran out the door, stumbling and tripping between your current self and the Soldier, the current Soldier.

 _“He ran off through the fire escape,”_  Steve was saying as he approached you, the past you.  _“Do you know who that was?”_

You thought the Soldier would have his attention on Captain America, as he often did, but he didn’t; his attention was on you. He was looking at you like he was confused, like there was something he wasn’t putting together.

“It’s not the greatest memory,” you said. “I couldn’t see your face, not really. It was kind of hard to focus in that moment.” You began walking back to the door, the door that would normally be the door to the stairwell, but in this case was the door to your subconscious. The Soldier didn’t follow. He was staring through to your apartment.

“… .James?” you said hesitantly, still unsure about using the name.

Without saying anything, he turned and walked over to you. You opened the door and the two of you walked through to the corridor, then began going back the way you came to a more recent memory. You were surprised at his silence, but didn’t ask any questions.

The next door you went through opened onto the street of Washington city. To your right was your past self, hiding behind a car as Steve and the past Winter Soldier fought on the road.

The two of you observed silently as the Winter Soldier, the past Winter Soldier, grabbed you from behind and began pulling you down the street as you screamed for help. You could feel the Soldier, the current Soldier, stiffen next to you as he watched the scene play out.

You watched as your past self pressed her hand to his head. You watched him drop you.

 _“What did they_  do  _to you?”_

The Soldier, the past Soldier, only hesitated a moment before being snapped out of his trance by Steve yelling your name. He punched a hole in your neck with a needle, and you fell unconscious.

The memory stuttered, then flashed forward to the Winter Soldier falling onto the ground, his mask falling off.

“Wait, what is this?” the Soldier, the current Soldier, asked you. “You’re unconscious. You couldn’t have remembered this.”

That shameful feeling creeped up on you again. “… .It’s called Story-Building, it’s a telepathic technique. I took your memory and added it to mine; it helps to see the bigger picture of things.”

_“… .Bucky?”_

_“Who the hell is Bucky?”_

The memory paused there, with nothing more to go off of. “That’s all I have of that,” you said. “I don’t know what happened after, but I know that I ended up in the hands of Hydra, so you must have won that fight against Steve and brought me to them.”

 

It was like taking a breath after being underwater for a long time. Suddenly, you were back in reality, in the small hotel room sitting across from the Soldier. Only, he wasn’t sitting anymore. He was standing, pacing, in front of you.

Disorientated by the switch, you gave him a confused look. “What just happened? What’s wrong?”

“Why are you helping me?” he asked you in a accusatory tone.

You blinked at him, still a bit stunned. “What? I told you, you help me and I help—”

“ _I_  was the one who kidnapped you.  _I_  was the one who took you to Hydra. It’s  _my_  fault that you’re in this mess, and you want me to believe that you’re just going to  _help_  the person who did this to you?”

 _Oh_. He didn’t know. He didn’t know that he was the one that Hydra sent to collect you. He didn’t know that he completed his mission. But you showed him everything.

“James, listen to me.” You stood up to face him. “This _isn’t your fault_. Hydra was always going to find me, okay? If it wasn’t you, it would’ve been someone else. I wasn’t careful enough, and they found me, and they took me.  _They_  did this, not you. They  _made_  you do this.”

“But I still did it,” he insisted. “I’m still the person who kidnapped you. You should be terrified of me: you were, I felt it in your memories. So  _why_  are you helping me?”

Your teeth were clenched together so hard you thought they might break. You did all you could to keep your breathing steady, to keep tears from leaving your eyes. Your throat felt tight; your body was shaking. You dug your nails into the tattooed bands around your non-bruised wrist.

_Keep it together._

“If I can help you,” you began, your words barely a whisper, “then maybe I can make up for what I’ve done, okay?”

He looked at you for a long time, his blue eyes studying you. Then, silently, he nodded.

You breathed and broke your gaze from his. “We should get some sleep,” you murmured, heading over to your bed. You were about to get under the covers when you realized the Soldier was still standing there, looking hesitant.

“I don’t know if I can,” he said after a moment.

You raised your eyebrows at him.

“Sleep,” he clarified.

You hadn’t thought about that. You wondered if he even remembered a time where he had slept. “Just…lay down, close your eyes. Sleep is good for memory building; it’s the time where your mind files away the memories from the day.”

He considered this for a moment, then laid down on the bed, on top of the covers, crossing his arms over his chest. He shifted and closed his eyes.

Not even five seconds later he opened them and got back up, going to sit in the chair at the small table by the window. He peeked through the curtains.

“Hey,” you said, a question in your tone.

“I should keep watch,” he replied.

“You have to sleep,” you told him. “You  _need_  to sleep.”

“I’ll sleep later,” was all he said, and you were too tired to try to get him to do anything else.

With a final stretch, you slipped off your blood-splattered shirt and pulled the covers over you, slowly falling into unconsciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I really really like this chapter and I hope you like it to! Might I remind you that feedback is always appreciated! (I still have two additional chapters already written and just waiting to be posted!)


	7. Part 2 - Chapter Seven: Fly Away Birdie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Soldier asks you about your tattoo. The two of you attempt to leave the country.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to the people who commented on Chapter Five and Chapter Six, this chapter would've have been posted without them. And don't forget, I still have a whole other chapter written that I haven't posted yet, so don't be shy, leave a comment!

You woke with a start and sat up, your breathing heavy, the nightmare still clouding the corners of your mind. A cold sweat covered your back and neck and chest, making you feel hot and uncomfortable. The blankets were pooled at your waist, letting the air cool your skin.

You looked around, a bit frantically, and found your eyes on the Soldier, who was still sitting at the table by the window. He was staring at you.

Trying to calm your breathing, you glanced at the time. It was 5:00am. You gave the Soldier a pointed look. “Please don’t tell me you’ve been sitting there all night.”

“Okay. I haven’t been sitting here all night.”

You made an annoyed noise. “You know I don’t have to read your mind to know when you’re lying, right?” He ignored the comment. “Do you remember what I said about needing sleep?”

“I had to make sure Hydra wasn’t tracking us.”

You sighed. “If they haven’t caught up to us by now then they don’t know where we are. We have a few hours before we need to get going. Lie down. Sleep.”

He glanced out the window. “I should—”

“Please don’t make me get up and drag you into bed, it’s too early for that.” You blinked at him, your eyelids heavy.

He pressed his lips together and looked at you for a moment. Then he got up and laid down on the bed.

“Thank you,” you breathed, and curled back down under the covers.

 

You woke up again a few hours later, this time naturally. The first thing you did was look at the clock. 8:30am — that was probably a good time to get up and start figuring out what you were going to do next.

You turned over to look at the bed next to you, only to find it empty. The Soldier, who was sitting by the window again, turned his attention to you when he heard you shifting. You sat up and opened your mouth to chastise him  _again_ , but he spoke before you could.

“I slept,” he said.

“How long?”

“A couple hours.”

Well, it was something, at least. You nodded, then turned your back to him as you shifted your body to touch your feet to the floor. You stretched your arms out, rolling your head as you tried to get out the kinks left by the uncomfortable motel bed.

“Your tattoo.” You froze at the sound of the Soldier’s voice. “The fire-bird. What’s it for?”

 _Shit_. You slipped up. You couldn’t stand the idea of sleeping with your blood-stained shirt on and so you slept in your bra. Except for under the straps, he could see the entire expanse of your tattoo — from the body of the bird made flame that stretched over your back, the head that rested at the base of your neck, to the wings that expanded over your shoulders and down your arms, growing narrower and narrower until the tips reached the outer edges of your pinkies.

You grabbed the blood-stained shirt and quickly pulled it over your head, covering the majority of the orange ink. You stood and walked over to him.

“Let me make this very clear,” you started as you stood above him where he sat in the chair by the window, “If you want my help, then you can’t ask me about my tattoo.”

He seemed stunned by the sudden change in tone. “What?”

“You ask any more questions, and I walk out that door, right now, and I’m not taking you with me. Do you understand?”

The Soldier slowly stood, towering over you. “Hydra’s still after you. You need my help.”

You held your ground. “I don’t.” You were bluffing. Mostly. “I could be doing this on my own; I don’t need you.” You could probably stay out of Hydra’s hands for a little while, but not forever. It definitely helped to have a highly trained assassin watch your back. “I’m helping you to save your soul, and mine. But compromising the safety of myself? Compromising  _your_  safety? Isn’t worth that redemption.”

His eyes narrowed, and he took a step closer. “What could be so dangerous about a tattoo?”

You held his gaze for a steady few seconds before turning sharply on your heel. You put on your shoes, grabbed your coat, and walked toward the door.

_Stop me. Stop me. Stop me._

_Please._

Your hand was on the door handle when he finally spoke. “Okay.” You stilled your movements. “Fine. I won’t ask questions. Just — don’t leave.”

You took a breath, then turned back around. “Thank you.”

He nodded, looking slightly distressed. You put down your coat and walked back over to him. You sat down on his bed.

“Okay,” you said. “Now we have to talk about what comes next. What now? Where do we go from here?”

He sat back down in the chair. “We need to get out of the country.  _Far_  out of the country. Somewhere it’ll take Hydra a long time to track us.”

You folded your arms over your chest. “And how do we do that? I have nowhere  _near_  enough money on me for a flight for both of us. I barely have enough for breakfast. And I’ve seen enough TV to know that it probably isn’t a good idea to take out money from my bank account, right?”

“Buying tickets for a flight wouldn’t work, anyway,” he replied. “Airports have too many cameras. And there’s the issue with passports. It wouldn’t take long for Hydra to I.D. you that way.”

You sighed, shaking your head. “You don’t even own a passport, do you? I guess you wouldn’t need one, Hydra probably has their own form of transportation.”

He looked at you at that.

“What?” you asked.

“I can fly a plane,” he responded. It took you a second to catch on.

“No,” you said firmly. “No, no, no, no, no — we are  _not_  stealing a plane from a  _Hydra base_!” You stood.

“We don’t have much of a choice.”

“ _Yes_  we do. We can choose  _not_  to go on a  _suicide mission_!” Your words were becoming increasingly panicked. “Do you even  _know_  where Hydra has an air-force base in Washington?”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “There’s one not far from where they took you to. Where I took you to.” You didn’t miss the way he corrected himself, his mouth twitching downwards.

“Do you know the layout?”

“No.”

“Well, there we go, we can’t go rushing in there without—”

“—But you do.”

You were momentarily stunned, your mouth left open. You closed it, your jaw clenching. He was talking about your telepathy. It wouldn’t take you long to find the layout from the mind of an unsuspecting Hydra agent. You rubbed your arm, avoiding his gaze. You didn’t have any more arguments.

He stood up from his chair to match your level. “I’m not going to let anything happen to you,” he said. “… .I need you.”

You looked back at him, searching his blue eyes.

“I need my memories back,” he added, “and I’m not going to do anything to jeopardize that. I’m not asking you to trust me, but I am asking you to trust how much I need you not to be dead, or captured. Okay?”

Eyes wide and eyebrows knitted together in concern, you took a deep breath. “You’re sure this is our only option?”

He held your gaze, and nodded.

 _Fuck_. Hydra base it is.

 

* * *

 

First stop was a laundromat. The Soldier had made a point that you couldn’t keep walking around wearing blood-stained clothing, especially if you were planning on sneaking onto a Hydra base. Which meant, as much as you didn’t like the idea of it, stealing clothes.

There was a laundromat walking distance from the motel. There were only a couple people inside when the two of you walked in. Neither of them paid any attention to you.

Lucky for you (and unlucky for someone else), someone had left their clothes unattended in the dryer. There was a small chance that the clothes would even fit you, so you couldn’t afford to be picky with what did.

Miraculously, the dryer had women’s clothes inside — it was a load of darks, mostly with jeans and shorts and only  _one_  shirt, dark grey in colour.

Making sure no one was looking (and within what the Soldier told you was a camera blindspot), you quickly changed into a pair of pants and the grey long-sleeve. You scowled as you assessed the outfit you now wore. The jeans were fine, a little bit long on you, but otherwise they fit. It was the shirt. What seemed like a normal long-sleeved shirt was actually a long-sleeved  _crop-top_ , exposing the skin of your stomach and lower back.

If you didn’t have the tattoo, maybe you would have liked it. But you  _did_  have the tattoo, and given that it put a target  _literally_  on your back, you hated wearing shirts that showed it off. Short sleeves (summers were hell), backless dresses, crop-tops: they were never an option for you.

Except now. Now it was your  _only_  option.

You tapped on the Soldier’s shoulder and he turned around to face you. He gave you a once over, his expression unreadable.

You rested your hands on your bare stomach. “It’s the only shirt there was.”

He considered this for a moment, then shrugged off his jacket. Wordlessly, he held it out for you. Your mouth parting slightly, slowly you reached out and took it from him.

“Thank you,” you said, your tone somewhat surprised but no less sincere. You slipped your arms through the sleeves and over your shoulders. It didn’t zip up, so you could still see your stomach, but at least it covered your back.

The two of you left the laundromat, and you followed the Soldier as he led you into an alleyway. Then he punched his elbow through the driver’s side of a car window.

You jumped at the sound it made. “ _Hey_ ,” you hissed, joining him at the side of the car as he unlocked the door from within and his upper body disappeared inside. “Someone could have heard that.”

He was hot-wiring the car. In a few seconds, the engine was purring. He slid into the driver’s seat. “Get in.”

You sighed in exasperation, but walked to the other side of the car anyway.

 

* * *

 

You left the car behind as you walked onto the Hydra base. Your stomach churned with nervousness; at some point during the drive, you realized that this was the base you would’ve been taken to had Hydra succeeded in putting you on a plane to Sokovia. Just the thought of how close you’d been to the point of no return… .You were starting to panic.

You don’t know if the Soldier noticed or not, but either way he pulled you aside. “Repeat back to me what I told you.”

You took a shaky breath. “Find someone. Pull the layout of the base from their mind and figure out where the airplane hanger is. Don’t be seen.”

He nodded, then gestured for you to follow him. Your hats covered your faces, keeping your identity hidden from the cameras you knew you would encounter eventually. (Thankfully, the Soldier had ripped the Captain America logo off of yours — less conspicuous that way.) The two of you paused outside the entrance, hidden as someone walked inside. The Soldier caught the door before it could close and you both snuck in behind them.

You stretched out your mind and searched the person’s head for the layout plans, careful not to be seen.

“Well?” the Soldier prompted.

“Give me a second.”

He was impatient. “Do you have it or not?”

“ _Hang on_.”

The farther away the person walked, the more you were slipping on your grip.  _Come on, come on —_

_THERE!_

“Okay, got it,” you said, and you started down the hall, following the memory you had taken. You were so focused that you couldn’t even tell if the Soldier was behind you or not. You turned left, then right, then right again. You continued down the hall —

— and suddenly you were being pulled into a side corridor. Your small cry of surprise was muffled by a hand over your mouth; something cold pressed onto your bare stomach and pinned you against a warm body behind you.

“Quiet. Listen,” the Soldier’s voice hissed into your ear. It sent an involuntary shiver down your spine. You breathed through your nose; you realized the cold you were feeling was his metal hand splayed over your skin.

The Soldier moved his flesh hand from your mouth and rested his arm across your collarbone, hand now gripping your shoulder. You could hear footsteps now, and talking. You held your breath as two Hydra agents walked down the hall you were previously on. You would’ve walked right into them had the Soldier not pulled you aside.

You waited for a good minute and a half after you couldn’t hear them anymore before he whispered, “Okay.”

You continued following the memory down the hall, this time always making sure the Soldier was right behind you in case he heard something you didn’t.

You walked for another five minutes before turning a corner — and smacking right into someone else.

You bumped back into the Soldier, who steadied you. The person you had ran into caught the wall with his hand, then narrowed his eyes at you.

“Who are you?” he asked. “Where’s your I.D.?”

The Soldier slowly moved in front of you, using his flesh hand to push you behind him. The man’s eyes caught the Soldier’s metal hand, and his eyes grew wide.

“ _Shit_ —” He reached for the gun at his hip, but the Soldier was quicker. He wrestled the man’s hand for possession of the gun — and it went off, hitting neither of them but creating a hole in the wall.

Neither TV nor movies had prepared you for how  _loud_  the sound of a gun was. Sure, you had heard gunfire on the bridge the day the Winter Soldier kidnapped you, but that was different, you were on a highway. This was a quiet hallway at close range.

Your ears were ringing.

The Soldier smashed his elbow into the man’s nose; he fell, blood spurting down his face, and the Soldier held the gun up to his head.

“No!” you shouted, moving his arm just in time as he pulled the trigger and the bullet nicked the man’s ear. The man made a noise of pain, but didn’t move as the gun was still technically trained on him.

The Soldier narrowed his eyes at you and opened his mouth, probably to ask you  _what the hell you were doing_ , when you spoke first.

“Please don’t kill him,” you said, frantic.

“ _What_?”

Suddenly, a loud alarm went off overhead, the hallway being washed in pulsating red light. The gunshots must have tipped them off. You rushed your sentences. “Look, this isn’t about your morality right now, okay, it’s about  _mine_. Please, for me,  _don’t kill him_.”

The Soldier looked back at the man, gun pointed at his head. He scowled, his teeth grinding together. He made a noise of frustration, then smashed the butt of the gun into the man’s forehead. He fell over, unconscious.

You gaped at the Soldier as he tucked the gun into the waistline of his pants. “We need to hurry,” was all he said, and you nodded, continuing to lead him down the hall.

This time the two of you ran, knowing there would be Hydra agents on your tail any second now.

“How much farther?”

“Almost there!”

You came to the door of the hanger. You pressed the large red button that you knew would open it. It moved up slowly.

“Come on come on come on,” you said, agitated.

“They’re almost here,” the Soldier told you, “Crawl under.”

You knelt and rolled under the small space the door had opened. You waited for the Soldier to follow. Instead, the door began to close again.

“Hey!” You pressed your hands to the metal, as if you could keep it from moving downwards. It met the floor.

“James?” you asked, panicking. The sound of gunfire rang on the other side of the door. You hit the wall of metal. “ _JAMES_!”

More gunfire. The sound of fighting. Shouting. It went on for a while until it stopped, and the only thing you could hear was the alarm going off. It might as well have been silence.

The door began opening again. You backed up slowly, fear creeping in and spreading through your entire body. What if this was it? What if this was the moment Hydra finally got you, for good this time?

You couldn’t let that happen.

You  _wouldn’t_  let that happen.

You saw a rack of handguns attached to a nearby wall. You grabbed one, the weight of it heavy in your hand. You watched the door as it moved up, slowly, slowly. You lifted the gun—

—and dropped it as the Soldier ducked out from under the door. He reached his arm under to press the button, then pulled it back as it began closing again.

He passed you on the way to one of the planes. “Come on.”

You got into one of the jets — small, but one of those fancy ones that had nice seats and an open space in the middle. The Soldier went for the cockpit and sat, quickly pressing buttons and flipping switches.

You sat in the co-pilot’s seat. Your voice was small. It was a whisper. “… .Did you kill them?”

The plane began moving forward and out of the hanger. As soon as you were far enough out, the Soldier sped up and the jet began to fly.

“I closed the door,” he finally answered. He didn’t explain what he meant. He didn’t need to. 

He closed the door. For you. He closed the door for you.

 

Your ears were ringing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so absolutely proud of this chapter, so I hope you liked it!


	8. Part 2 - Chapter Eight: Responsibility (To Them, To You)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A familiar face comes to talk with you. You worry about your future.

You looked around the pitch black room you suddenly found yourself in, an endless void with no walls or structures of any kind. Despite the blackness, you could still see. There was silence, no noise — until you took a step, and your shoes made an echo that went on and on and on into the vastness.

“You don’t make it easy to find you, do you, Y/N?”

You closed your eyes, jaw clenching at the voice. You turned, your steps making echos where voices did not.

“Emma,” you said curtly to the pale blonde woman who now stood before you, “What are you doing? How are you here?” Even the strongest telepaths had a finite range when it came to telepathic conversations.

“A asked a favour of a friend,” she replied. “They allowed me to use their telepathic amplifier to find you.”

You ground your teeth together. There was only one place that had an amplifier like that. “What the hell are you doing in New York, Emma?”

“It’s been a while since I last visited, so I came to see you — only to find that you were no longer living there. Tell me, when exactly were you planning on telling us you had moved?”

You crossed your arms over your chest. “I left New York barely a week ago, I was going to call you eventually.”

She hummed. “And where are you off to now? I can tell you’re over the Atlantic. Taking a trip so soon after moving?”

You gave her a fake smile. “None of your business, Emma.”

“It absolutely is my business, Y/N,” she said. “Might I remind you that you have an important responsibility to uphold. You have been chosen for something…absolutely incredible, incomparable to anything else. This is your reason for being, Y/N; the good that we will be able to do—”

“I don’t want it,” you interrupted, your breathing becoming shallow.

“Y/N,” she said calmly, comfortingly, “I know this can be scary—”

“ _No_ ,” you said firmly. “ _Fuck_  your responsibility.”

She gave you a look, half concerned, half scolding. “Y/N—”

“Do you have any idea what I’ve been through the past few days?” you yelled at her, tears stinging the corners of your eyes. “Do you have any idea what  _this_ —” you held up your arm and wrapped your hand around part of your tattoo “—has put me through?! You put a  _target_  on my back! You chose this for me but I don’t want it! Give it to someone else!”

You knew she was worried now; your mentor had always showed more concern for your personal well-being than the others did (sometimes you thought even more than your own parents). “You know that we can’t do that; you know it can’t be anyone else, that’s what Irene showed you.”

You scratched at your wrists, your mind going into overdrive at the mention of the seer. Emma stepped forward and grabbed your hands, holding them in her own.

“What happened, Y/N? What did you mean when you said there’s a target on your back? Are you in danger?”

You pushed her away, your hands balling up into fists at your side. “You should be careful who you let into your Circle, Emma. Someone’s been divulging secrets they shouldn’t be.”

“What are you talking about —  _what happened_?”

“Go to Hell.”

She touched her hand to her head, her face pinching together in pain. She gave you a desperate look. “Please don’t shut me out, Y/N.” Her words began to feel far away. “You need us! This is going to happen, and when it does, you’ll need our help. Otherwise, you won’t be able to… .”

 

* * *

 

You woke with a start, Emma’s last words before you shut her out completely echoing in the edges of your mind.

You had fallen asleep in the co-pilot’s seat next to the Soldier as he flew the jet. You don’t remember falling asleep. You had been watching the open expanse of the sky for so long… .The blue and white… .

You felt sick.

You could feel the Soldier’s attention on you as you unbuckled your seat and got up, rather abruptly, and left the cockpit.

You didn’t even get the chance to take a good look at the fancy interior as you rushed to the plane bathroom and retched into the toilet.

There wasn’t much to throw up. You didn’t remember the last time you had eaten something. Wait, no, you got a protein bar from the vending machine at the motel. When was that? Last night? This morning?

Your head was spinning.

You started dry-heaving instead.

_You know it can’t be anyone else, that’s what Irene showed you._

You sat on the floor of the small, cramped bathroom. It was twice the size of a normal plane bathroom, but that’s not really saying anything. You covered your mouth as panicked breaths came out in short bursts; sobs were choking your throat.

_It can’t be anyone else._

Why did it have to be you? There were other telepaths just dying to take your place.

_That’s what Irene showed you._

There was a locked box in your mind. It held only one memory.

_This is your reason for being._

You were so tired.

 

* * *

 

It was a while before you re-joined the Soldier in the cockpit, sliding into the co-pilot’s chair without a word and continuing your observation of the sky, and the sea below.

It was ten minutes before you spoke.

“Where are we going?” You hated how hoarse your voice sounded.

“Whichever land-mass comes first,” he replied.

“Which would be…?”

“Spain, most likely.”

You nodded and said nothing else. There was another long silence — this time, broken by the Soldier.

“Can I ask you a question?”

You looked over at him, your eyes sad and exhausted. You raised your eyebrows at him, waiting for him to speak.

“Why didn’t you want me to kill that man?” he asked. Your eyebrows knitted together. “He was a Hydra agent. He wouldn’t have hesitated to kill  _you_. And you said it had nothing to do with  _my_ morality, so…what?”

Your shoulders moved up in a weak attempt at a shrug, and you shook your head. “I… .” your voice came out hollow, a whisper. You tried again. “I don’t like violence.”

“He deserved to die.”

Your eyes narrowed and you shook your head again, this time more meaningfully. “No one  _deserves_  to die. Not even him.” You stared back into the blue vastness. “It just continues the cycle of violence. I won’t be responsible for… .” Your throat felt swollen, and you couldn’t finish your sentence. You swallowed, and tried again. “I don’t want to hurt people. Doesn’t matter who they are. I don’t want to…I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

He was quiet for a moment, but not as long as before.

“What about the gun?”

You looked at him at that. “What?”

“When I came into the hanger, you were holding a gun.”

You pulled your knees up to your chest and hugged them. You avoided his gaze. “I wasn’t going to let Hydra take me again.”

“I thought you didn’t like violence.”

“I don’t.”

“So what was the gun for?”

You closed your eyes. “… .I wasn’t going to let Hydra take me again,” you repeated.

You felt his eyes on you. He looked at you for a long time. You knew at this point he understood. The gun wasn’t for them.

“I don’t want to die,” you said in a small voice. A tear escaped your eye and you quickly swiped it away. “But I couldn’t live with myself if Hydra made me hurt people.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw the Soldier’s jaw clench and his lips pull together; he refocused his attention out the window. It took you a few seconds to notice your mistake.

“ _James_ ,” you breathed, “I didn’t mean—”

“Yeah, you did.”

And suddenly, as you looked at him, you felt a renewed sense of purpose, of being.

“I’m going to fix you,” you said, and you were surprised by how strong your voice had become. “I promise.”

“What if you can’t?” he asked, and he sounded distressed all of the sudden, like it was a question he had been waiting to get out. “How do you know that my memories aren’t  _gone_ , permanently?”

You thought about this. “I know because you can fly a plane.”

He gave you a strange look. “What?”

“You can fly a plane. You can fight, drive a car. You told me things about Hydra, small details, but you told me them. These are all things you couldn’t have learned in the time between your last memory wipe and now. This is how I know your memories are still there. Hydra left cracks on purpose so they wouldn’t have to re-teach you everything — and that means that they  _didn’t erase everything_. Your memories are there, I just have to find a way to get them out.”

You could see the tension leaving his shoulders. He looked back over at you with a different sort of intensity, like he was studying you, analyzing you.

“There’s food in the back,” he finally said. “You should eat something.”

Taking a deep breath, you nodded, then got up and left the cockpit.

 

_This is your reason for being._

Bullshit.

You were going to fix Bucky Barnes.

And you weren’t going to think about Irene’s vision of your future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So this was a chapter that was very heavy on the Reader’s backstory. There are some clues I’ve thrown in there about what the hell exactly is going on, but it’s gonna take a dedicated detective to sort that out!


	9. Part 2 - Chapter Nine: Staircases

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You go over what happened between the time the Soldier left you and the time you met him in the Smithsonian. You get a better handle on the structure of his mind. Nightmares continue to plague you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dedicated to my friend friendly-neighborhood-lich-queen <3

You were wide awake when you finally landed somewhere in Spain, despite it being pitch black outside. You were on a remote piece of land the Soldier told you would probably be safe. Probably. **  
**

“We’ll stay in the plane for tonight,” the Soldier said, shortly after landing, as he got up and moved out of the cockpit. You followed him.

“And tomorrow?” you asked.

He gave you a noncommittal gesture, his shoulders moving up slightly. You sighed.

“Well, I know I won’t be going to sleep any time soon because of the jetlag, so…maybe I can take a look at what I’m working with?” You were referring to the current state of his mind.

He pressed his lips together, hesitant. But then he nodded, and sat down in the open space of the plane’s middle area. Now it was your turn to be tentative.

“What?” he asked, his eyebrows raising at you as you remained standing.

“I… .It’ll be difficult to sort out your mind without physical contact,” you explained, and briefly touched your pointer and middle finger to your temple as an example. “It’s just…easier that way. I should probably sit behind you.”

As usual, he paused before giving you a nod of consent. You walked around him and sat. You held your hand near the side of his head, not yet touching it.

“I want you to go over the memories you have right now. Show me what happened after you left the Hydra building. Can you do that?”

“…Okay.”

You closed your eyes and gently pressed your hand to the side of his head, one finger on his temple. The scenery of the plane began to bleed away…and you began the descent into his memories… .

 

You weren’t sure how to describe where you were. It had levels and a glass exterior, with some kind of technology in the middle. There was blue sky out the windows…you must of been in some kind of aircraft.

You recognized Steve. He was opening the door to the technology in the center…there was some kind of chip in his hand.

The Winter Soldier was behind him. You watched the memory play out, watched Steve try to talk to his friend, try to convince him of who he was. They ended up fighting, and at some point Steve managed to place the chip into the technology in the middle.

The aircraft shook, suddenly unstable, and you struggled to keep your balance as you observed. Steve and the Soldier were still fighting.

 _“You know me,”_  Steve said.

 _“No, I don’t!”_  The Soldier lashed out and hit him. You winced as his fist made contact.

 _“Bucky, you’ve known me your whole life,”_  Steve was still trying to convince him. The Soldier hit him again but he didn’t fight back.  _“Your name is James Buchanan Barnes.”_

Another hit.  _“Shut up!”_

You watched as Steve took off his helmet. He let it and his shield drop through the cracked glass, down into the water below.  _“I’m not going to fight you,”_  he said.  _“You’re my friend.”_

The Soldier tackled Steve to the ground. _“You’re my mission.”_  He began repeatedly punching him in the face.  _“You’re my mission!”_

You remembered this part suddenly. The location, the debris falling everywhere, the Soldier on top of Captain America, Steve’s face a mosaic of cuts and bruises… .

 _“Then finish it.”_  The Soldier’s fist hesitated in the air as Steve spoke.  _“‘Cause I’m with you ‘till the end of the line.”_

This was the memory you had taken from the Soldier during your first session… .You still had a ring of bruises around your wrist… .

It occurred to you suddenly, as you watched the memory — the Soldier’s hesitation and his eyes…wide and confused and almost horrified as recognition sparked somewhere — that maybe you shouldn’t be referring to him as ‘The Soldier’, anymore. It was something you called him in your head, something you associated him with, this name that at some point someone had come up with to describe the dangerous ghost assassin, the winter soldier. But continuing to call him that now…calling him by the name that was associated with the person who kidnapped you, who hurt you…seemed wrong.

_Bucky. His name was Bucky._

In the next second, the bottom of the aircraft fell out, along with Steve Rogers, who fell down, down into the water below. Horrified, you turned to Bucky, the current Bucky, your mouth hanging open. He had been quiet during the whole ordeal, his mouth pulled into a tight line.

“What happened to Steve, is he okay?” you asked in a panicked voice. That dropping feeling was pulling at the core of your stomach as the aircraft continued to fall. “James!”

“Just…wait,” he told you, and you returned your attention down.

His past self was struggling with something as he stared down where Steve Rogers once was. His fists were closed tightly at his sides, his jaw clenching and unclenching over and over. He pursed his lips, and jumped.

It was like the floor was being pulled out from under you, and a more intense feeling of falling pulled at your core, feeling what he felt as he fell and hit the water.

The shock of the cold hit you suddenly as your scenery changed abruptly from aircraft to underwater. Your vision was limited in the dark river, but you felt your hand — Bucky’s hand — grab something, body struggling as you — he — swam up while pulling a heavy weight.

Your scenery changed again, this time to the beach of the river, and you sucked in a breath of air. You watched as Bucky’s past self walked onto the shore, dragging Steve Rogers onto dry land. He paused for a moment.

Steve coughed up water, and Bucky’s past self finally walked away.

Hugging your arms around your soaked self, you looked at Bucky, the current Bucky, with wide eyes.

“You…you saved his life.” Disbelief coated your words. “…Why did you do that?”

His lips pulled into a tight line, and he blinked a couple of times. “I don’t know.”

“Do you…” you were hesitant to finish the sentence, “do you think you…remember—”

“No,” he said firmly, then faltered. “Maybe. I don’t…I don’t know.”

There was a silence as you watched Bucky’s past self walk down the beach, farther and farther from the unconscious, but thankfully alive, Steve Rogers.

“Is there anything else that happened between this and the Smithsonian?” you asked after a few moments.

“Nothing important,” he replied.

“Okay.” You were trying to think of the best way to proceed. “Okay, I need to see how your memories are arranged, so take me to the memory of the Smithsonian.”

He gave you a look. “How do I do that?”

“Just…think about the memory. Close your eyes if you have to.”

He remained looking at you for a moment before sighing and shutting his eyes. “… .Nothing’s happening.”

“Give it a second.”

In the next moment, the sand from the beach began building itself into the shape of a staircase, going up, up, over the river and into the sky. It simultaneously seemed to disappear and go on forever as it reached the very top.

Bucky blinked several times as the sand built itself together into a solid structure. “Huh.”

You gestured for him to go first. “This is your mind. Lead the way.”

Hesitantly, he looked at you, then walked to the sand staircase. He tested the first step, and when he found that his foot didn’t go straight through it, he continued onto the second step, then the third, the fourth, and on.

You followed behind him, glancing briefly over your shoulder at the soaked and bruised Captain America laying on the riverside.

_“Can you promise you’ll be honest with me?”_

_“I promise.”_

It hit you, suddenly, as you sat in the plane sifting through Bucky Barnes’s memories, the plane he landed somewhere in Spain, if you would ever see Steve Rogers again. If you were being honest with yourself, part of you hoped you wouldn’t. You didn’t want to have to face him again, not after you had lied to his face.

You scratched at your wrist. God, you were horrible.

 

The shift in staircases was so seamless that you couldn’t tell when you had left the sand staircase in the sky and when you had entered the concrete steps of the Smithsonian.

You arrived on the floor of the Captain America exhibit; you could see the back of past Bucky’s head, with his hair tied up and his hat on, not far from where you were.

“Floors,” you murmured as you looked back at the staircase you had came from, a hint of awe in your voice. “You organized your memories into floors.”

He studied you, seeming unsure. “What does that mean?”

“It’s just a metaphor that you chose to represent your mind,” you said quickly, trying to reassure him. “Everyone’s mind is different. I was raised with telepaths, and they taught me to organize my memories in the simplest way, with doors and a hall. But I can work with floors.” You crossed your arms across your chest, thinking. “Although… .”

“Although what?” His eyebrows furrowed together at you.

“Building floors for your mind to fill your old memories with shouldn’t be too difficult, it’s just going to take time. What I’m more worried about is…the basement metaphor.”

His face shifted from worried to confused. “Basement metaphor?”

“You organized your mind into floors, which means it’s like a building, right?” you explained. You began making gestures with your hands. “You have your newer memories at the top, and your older memories at the bottom. That’s why the staircase we took went up and not down, because this memory is more recent than the last one. This is a chronological order, and it would make sense to assume that in this order the basement serves as a cut-off point: all the underground floors would hold your memories from the ‘40s — directly above that would be the moment Hydra made you into their weapon. And then…everything else, going up.”

He nodded thoughtfully, his face pinched as he was trying to understand. “Okay, I think that makes sense. So what’s the problem?”

You took a breath. “The problem is that it might not be that easy. The mind is complicated and…it doesn’t always organize memories chronologically. Sometimes, memories get organized by association. Y’know, when you think of something and that makes you think of something else, and something else, and so on and so on.”

His eyes were narrowed at you. “Get to the point.”

You sighed. “You chose a building as a metaphor for the structure of your mind. A building has a basement, and people often associate basements with a place where you…hide things. Bad things. In the case of organization of association, there’s a chance that your mind may sort the memories that…you want to  _suppress_ , into the lower levels of the metaphor you created. Probably sorted from…bad to worse.” He was starting to look at you worriedly again. “Look, we don’t have to worry about that right now. It might not even be organized that way. Alright?”

He said nothing in response, nodding only once.

“Okay. Let’s work on building on the memories I have of you, so your mind can rebuild your point of view.”

 

* * *

 

You spent a couple more hours building new floors of his mind; by the end, he remembered every moment the two of you shared, from the night he was waiting for you in your apartment, to the day he kidnapped you and took you to Hydra, all the way to the exact moment Pierce put him in that chair and erased his memories in the first (100th) place.

You weren’t naive, you knew the fact that you were building off of your own memories gave you an almost impossible advantage. Rebuilding his other memories would be nowhere near as easy, or quick, as this had been.

The two of you decided to call it a night and attempt to sleep, despite the jetlag hanging over you like a caffeine shot. Luckily, the chairs in the fancy private jet were incredibly comfortable and reclined all the way back; somehow, you were able to drift off into unconsciousness.

 

_Hot, thick liquid poured into the room, filling it inch by inch, the red seeping into your shoes and moving past your ankles, your knees, your waist._

_You desperately searched for a solution, panic clogging every nerve and pore and thought._

_There were bodies hanging on the wall. Different bodies for each of the four sides — six men with a red hand-print on each of their chests, five men with the red symbol of an octopus painted in the same place —_

_The third wall hung the body of a familiar face. When Steve Rogers spoke, blood poured from his mouth. It stained red the rope that was tied around his throat._

_“You lied to me.”_

_The hot liquid was at your collarbone now. “I’m sorry!” you cried, and water obscured your vision._

_“Just look what you’ve done.”_

_You turned to the wall across from him, red liquid almost at your jaw, only to find the body hanging there to be you. It wasn’t strung up like the others — your feet were bound together, but your arms were spread out, like wings._

_The eyes opened._

_They were the colour of fire._

 

You woke, gasping, trying to catch your breath. You muffled your panicked response with your hand; you didn’t want to wake Bucky. The sobs stuck in your throat.

You laid back down as tears dripped from your eyes; you tried not to hyperventilate; you tried not to let your sobbing be audible.

 

What you didn’t know was that Bucky was awake, and he had no idea how to help you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So bit of a shorter chapter, I had to add some obligatory explanation and stuff. Hope you still enjoyed it!


	10. Part 2 - Chapter Ten: Feels Like Blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe if things were different, you could have drowned in the blue of his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Whenever someone is speaking in a language other than English, it will be shown [like this].

“I remembered something last night.”

You were sorting through what was left of the non-perishable food in the back of the plane when you heard Bucky speak. The two of you wouldn’t be able to survive much longer on what amounted to mostly packaged peanuts and pretzels: any real meals would have had to have been brought onto the plane right before boarding, and obviously your flight wasn’t exactly scheduled.

You tossed him a pack of pretzels and a water bottle as you walked back to the middle of the plane and sat across from him.

“There’s a safehouse, in Romania,” he continued, “There should be enough resources to live there for a while. Money, weapons, food. Also…there’s information stored there.”

“Do you think there’ll be something there about you?” you asked in a gentle tone.

“Maybe,” he replied.

“A Hydra safehouse… .” you mused, “Is that even…safe? Couldn’t they find us there?”

He shook his head. “Hydra has safehouses all over the world. They won’t search through every one. We’ll be fine.”

You were still unsure, but you let it go. You crumpled up the empty package of your ‘breakfast’ and sighed. “Well, we can’t leave without getting some real food.” The fear and adrenaline rushes had worn off and you were  _hungry_. The last proper meal you had was at Sam’s house, and even then you didn’t eat much. You couldn’t keep going like this.

“There should be a town nearby,” he said, standing up. “But we can’t stay long. It’s still not safe to be out in the open.”

“Don’t you think if Hydra was still tracking us they would have found us by now?” you asked, trying to quell his paranoia.

His lips pulled into a tight line. “Not necessarily.”

You crossed your arms over your chest, your eyebrows knitting together. You sighed. “Okay. We get some supplies and we get out.”

 

* * *

 

It was an hour’s walk to the closest town. By the time you reached it, you felt dizzy and weak, all your energy completely zapped. You hated the idea of having to steal food, but…you didn’t exactly have a choice at this point.

It was Bucky who did the actual stealing, expertly nicking things off carts as you walked through the marketplace and putting them into a bag you had taken from the plane. He even pickpocketed a couple of wallets, and with the money you bought some non-perishables to take back to the plane.

The two of you sat at a cafe table after, and you tried to be as inconspicuous as possible as you ate some of the food Bucky had stolen. You had already finished a sandwich and an apple when you realized he hadn’t touched any of it.

“Aren’t you going to eat anything?” you asked him, giving him a concerned look.

He shook his head, once. “Whatever Hydra did to me…I can go a while without food.”

You held the other sandwich out to him. “Are you sure?”

“You need it more than I do,” he said. You were still concerned, but you could tell he wasn’t lying about it so you began eating the sandwich yourself.

Bucky wanted to leave as soon as you were done, but you convinced him that it would look less suspicious if you ordered something at the cafe you sat outside of, using the leftover Spanish money that wouldn’t be worth anything once you got to Romania.

You both got a coffee and you ordered some extra food to-go for the walk back. Bucky’s finger tapped on the edge of his mug as you sipped your own, his eyes scanning your surroundings, his head tipped down to keep his hat covering his identity.

The waiter came back a couple minutes later with your food in to-go bags. “[Anything else]?” he asked in Spanish, giving you a kind smile. You smiled back at him.

“[Just the bill],” Bucky replied in a clipped tone. The waiter’s smile wavered for a second before he nodded and left.

Your lips parted and you blinked at Bucky. “You speak Spanish?”

He blinked back at you a few times, then glanced down. “Uh…yeah.”

You leaned forward, trying to meet his eyes. “… .Did you know that you could speak Spanish?”

He took a breath. “Must have been one of the things Hydra didn’t erase.”

You shook your head and sighed, rolling your mug in your hands. “I’m sorry.”

His eyebrows knitted together at you. “For what?”

“Just…” you crossed your arms and looked up at him, “all of this. I can’t even imagine…how this is for you.”

He looked at you for a long time, his blue eyes searching yours. His gaze felt intense, like most of him was, but you held it anyway. You wondered what he was thinking, but for once you kept yourself from reaching out to his mind. The one person who could feel you inside their head… .

His lips parted and his mouth opened as if he was going to speak, but then he faltered, and turned his head, his eyebrows knitting together.

The next second his eyes widened and he lunged across the table, knocking it over as he grabbed your body and pulled you to the ground. You could hear the sound of gunshots and registered screaming as Bucky landed on top of you, shielding your body with his own. He covered your head with his metal arm, and braced his flesh hand on your waist.

Fear washing over you in sudden waves, you gripped onto his biceps, trying to hold onto anything that would keep you from falling into a panicked oblivion. You tried to focus on anything else besides the horrifying shrieking coming from all over.

You instead fixed your attention to Bucky’s hand, the way it felt pressed to your bare skin. (You were still wearing that damn crop top.) Unlike before, when it was his metal hand cold and smooth against your stomach, his flesh hand was… _warm_ , and calloused and… _real_.

When the sounds of gunshots stopped, Bucky searched the surroundings as you struggled to keep your breathing even. He looked down at you, and there was a moment. A moment where you shared breath, a moment of calm despite the adrenaline spiking your veins.

Maybe if things were different, you could have drowned in the blue of his eyes.

Bucky stood and pulled you up, and the two of you began running down the street, trying to put as much distance between you and the person with the gun as you could. You ran until Bucky pulled you into an alleyway, and you tried to catch your breath as he looked around the corner.

“What the hell happened to wanting us alive?” you asked, your breathing harsh.

“They were trying to take me out to get to you,” he said, and you gave him a worried look. He shook his head. “They know I can take a hit; they weren’t trying to  _kill_  me.”

“If they were going after you, then maybe  _I_  should have been the one laying on top of  _you_ , shielding  _you_  with  _my_  body,” you halfheartedly joked, trying on a smile.

He didn’t respond to the comment, only looked back around the corner to see if anyone was coming.

“How did they even find us?” you asked instead.

“The jet could have had a tracker in it,” Bucky replied.

“The jet, that’s  _an hour away from here_ ,” you said, and he looked at you at that. “We picked a direction and started walking. Who knows how many other cities are closer to the jet than this one was, just the other way. How did they track us  _here_?”

His eyes narrowed; they moved back and forth as he thought about this. Then he began rolling up the sleeve of the shirt over his flesh arm, and used his metal hand to feel up and down the skin — stopping at the inside of his forearm, right before his elbow.

Your eyes grew wide and your mouth fell open as he pulled out a switchblade and dug into his skin in an unbroken stride, with no hesitation. His expression twitched with pain as blood ran down his arm.

“What are you doing?” you asked him in a panicked voice. He continued without answering, instead pulling a small silver disk from deep under his skin. You blinked at him, slightly stunned. “What is  _that_?”

He dropped the disk and crushed it under his heel, then tore a strip off of his shirt and tied it above the bleeding hole in his arm. He gestured to the broken pieces on the ground. “Embedded tracker.”

 _Shit_. You should have known better. You should have known that Hydra wouldn’t have just let their strongest weapon go out into the world without having ways to get him back.

“Check your arms.”

You looked up at him, and your eyebrows furrowed together. “What?”

“Check. Your arms,” he repeated. Slowly, you rolled up your sleeves, wincing only once when you had to use your hand with the bruised wrist. You ran your hands up and down each arm.

You stopped when you felt something. A bump in the same place he had just pulled a tracker from, just on the opposite arm.

“They put one in you, too,” he mused. Of course they did.  _Of course_  they did. Hydra took every precaution when it came to you and him.

Bucky took a step toward you and you recoiled, using your hand with the bruised wrist to cover the patch of skin you now knew housed a small piece of technology.

“I have to take it out,” he said, and reached for your hand. The second he attempted to pull it off, you made a small noise of pain — he let go immediately, his jaw clenching as his eyes caught sight of the bruised flesh.

You looked at him for a moment, your heart pounding, then removed your hand and held out your arm. “Just…” you squeezed your eyes shut, “be careful.”

You felt the cold of his metal hand brace the underneath of your arm, holding it in place. The next feeling was  _pain_ , pain as he dug the knife into your skin, deeper and deeper. You could feel the blood running over your skin and you covered your mouth to keep from screaming. Tears collected in your eyes and squeezed through the lids, despite being shut. You bit down on your tongue; you tasted blood in your mouth.

And then it was over. The throbbing continued, but when you opened your eyes, Bucky was crushing the tracker into the pavement.

You pressed your hand to the wound, trying to staunch the blood-flow. Bucky put away his knife, then tore another strip off of his shirt. In a surprisingly gentle manner, he took your arm and wrapped the piece of fabric just above the cut, tying it tight.

Your eyes caught his for a fleeting moment as his hands were pressed to your skin. Then he took a step back.

“We need to get back to the jet.” He looked around the corner of the alleyway again before starting down the street. You followed him as closely as you could.

“They’re going to catch up to us — James, we can’t make that walk again,” you said, your words laced with bubbling panic.

“That’s why we’re not going to walk.” He had stopped in front of a car. You briefly experienced some deja vu as he used his elbow to smash the window in.

 

The drive took twenty minutes. It was a miracle that Hydra hadn’t found you before then, or followed you out to the jet.

Blood from your wound stained your clothes, stained the jacket that Bucky had given you. It reminded you too much of before, of what you had done.

At least this time the blood was yours.

The two of you boarded the plane, and Bucky started the engines. As you sat in the co-pilot’s seat, a wave of exhaustion hit you, the other side of jetlag catching up to your body and mind. You eyes stared out the window as the ground began moving away, and then down, sky replacing earth…the jet flying in the sky as you closed your eyes to sleep… .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This chapter is a bit shorter than what I normally put out, but I had to add in the obligatory “Bucky shields the Reader from danger by laying on top of her” scene. This whole chapter was just fanservice and eye contact I hope you liked it


	11. Part 2 - Chapter Eleven: The Basement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You find one of Bucky’s memories from the 1940s.

As soon as you were flying at the optimal level, Bucky put the plane on autopilot in order to stitch up his arm and yours.

It amazed you the way Bucky processed pain, threading the needle in and out of his skin with barely a wince. The jet had a first aid kit, so you didn’t need to improvise when it came to a needle and stitching, but you didn’t doubt that Bucky could use a random sharp object and the thread of his own shirt if he had to.

You had your own fair share of painful experiences and many,  _many_  stitches that came with  ~~those~~   _that_  experience, but that didn’t mean that you processed pain any better than the average person.

The wound wasn’t very big, so it didn’t need a  _lot_  of stitches, but it still hurt almost as much as it did when Bucky cut into you, maybe more. It was hard to focus on a pain-scale when you were  _in pain_  and couldn’t focus on much of anything.

Like before, you squeezed your eyes shut as Bucky held your arm in place with his metal hand, and used his flesh hand to thread the needle and stitching in and out of your skin. It was awful, but over quickly, and you wiped away your tears as he cut the hanging thread of the stitch.

“Thank you,” you whispered when he was done and got up. He gave you a nod, then returned back to the cockpit.

 

The flight was only a few hours. You used that time to sleep, and thankfully no nightmares came to haunt you.

Like in Spain, Bucky landed the jet in a remote area to avoid any attention. The walk to the closest town was about the same as before, and since you had to leave the food that you had accumulated back in Spain behind, it meant getting some more for the long car ride Bucky told you was ahead.

A few nicked wallets later and you had a bag of snacks to last a few hours. Luckily, the car that Bucky hotwired for the ride had a GPS system, which would make things easier as you made your way to Bucharest.

 

The car ride took about five hours, and by the time you reached the city it was still light out but the sun was hanging low in the sky. The two of you abandoned the car near the edge of the city, and you followed Bucky as he led you to the safehouse.

The safehouse, as it turned out, was a small apartment on the top floor of an apartment building not on the city edges but not in the city centre either. It had a kitchen with a fridge and stove and oven and sink; there were non-perishable food items in the cabinets, plus pots and pans and such; there was even a dining table with a couple of chairs.

There was only one bed (twin sized), which was a generous term because it was essentially just a mattress with a blanket and pillow.

“I can sleep on the floor,” Bucky said, just as you opened your mouth to say the same thing.

“You don’t have to do that, I can—”

“Mattress’s too soft. Floor’s fine,” he insisted, and that was the end of that. He turned and found a closet with some extra blankets and pillows, pulled a couple out, then set them up on the floor next to the mattress.

There were only two other doors in the apartment besides the entrance, closet, and exit to the balcony. One door went to the bathroom, which was small but had all the essentials: a toilet, sink, and a bath/shower combo. The other door, the two of you discovered, was a tiny room only a little bit bigger than the closet: there was a rack of guns and knives inside (not very many, but enough), and a table with stacks of files. The Hydra symbol was stamped on top of each of them, along with a stamped “CONFIDENTIAL” in red.

You looked at Bucky as he stared at the contents of the table, watched him blink several times and swallow once.

“We need groceries,” you murmured to him as you spied the bag of Romanian money. You took some out and put it in the backpack that was also from the small room. “I’ll go out; you stay here and look over these files.”

Bucky looked over at you and took a breath as if he was going to protest, then glanced back at the files, and nodded. “Okay.”

 

There was a grocery store not far from the apartment. Shopping didn’t take you very long, and you were going to go pay when you noticed something on the rack near the cashier’s till. It was a journal, medium sized, with a brown cover. You considered it for a moment, then picked it up.

 

Bucky was sitting at the dining table when you got back, having gone through a decent amount of files. He looked up at you as you entered and set down the bags of groceries.

“Find anything yet?” you asked him as you began putting things away.

“No,” he replied. He went back to reading as you continued with the groceries. Once you had unloaded everything, you tentatively picked up the last item and held it in your hands.

You looked at it for a moment before putting it down on the table in front of Bucky. “Here,” you said.

He looked at the journal, then back up at you. “What’s this?”

You shrugged. “I thought…maybe when you start getting your memories back, you could write them down. Try to make sense of everything.”

He picked it up, considering it for a moment. His blue eyes returned to yours. “Thanks.” Despite the one-worded response, you could tell he was genuinely grateful for it. He flipped through the pages in a quick succession, then closed it and put it down.

“So,” you began, “Should we continue where we left off?”

 

* * *

 

Over the next two months, you and Bucky worked out a well-oiled system of daily living. Bucky always got up at 5am to work out (he somehow did it quietly enough not to wake you) and to go for a run, getting back by the time you got up at 8am. You would eat breakfast and have coffee and then start a telepathy session at 9. At 12 o’clock you’d take a break to eat lunch, then read a book for a couple of hours while Bucky wrote in his journal or went over the files left behind by Hydra. At 2pm you’d continue with another telepathy session, then stop for the day at 6, when you’d have dinner.

You hadn’t left the apartment much in the two months you had been there, besides going to the grocery shop or to the bookstore. Sometimes, on weekends, you went out to the park to sit in the sun and enjoy the peace. But other than that, you hadn’t done much more than work on Bucky’s memories and finish several books and honestly, it was starting to drive you a little crazy.

Things between you and Bucky were…fine. He wasn’t one to talk much, and despite technically spending almost every waking hour with him, the two of you hadn’t gotten any closer. And this mostly stemmed from the fact that you hadn’t gotten anywhere with his memories.

You had spent the past two months rebuilding floors for his mind, literally (or figuratively depending on your point of view when it came to the metaphor of the mind) building it brick by brick to make floors and walls and stairs so that his mind could fill them with old memories. But not a single memory had surfaced since you started; and the longer this went on, the more frustrated you could tell Bucky was beginning to become.

You were an hour into your second session of the day when he finally snapped. His mind building bled away and you were forced back into reality as Bucky pulled himself out of the telepathic field.

“We’re not getting anywhere with this,” he said, turning around to face you and rubbing his flesh hand over his face.

“I told you this would take time,” you said in a gentle tone, although you were just as frustrated as he was. Being cooped up in the apartment for this long was not doing any good for your mental health, and neither was the sleep deprivation that occurred every once and a while due to nightmares.

“It’s been two months.  _Nothing_. Not a single memory. How much longer before I start remembering?”

You rubbed your eyes. “I don’t know.”

“Another month? Six? A  _year_?”

“I am practically rebuilding your memory by scratch, James!” you blurted out at him. “I told you when we made this deal back in the Smithsonian that this would  _not_  be easy and it would  _not_  be quick. I am rebuilding sections of your mind. It  _takes_.  _Time_.” You hadn’t slept the night before. Your head was pounding.

Bucky’s jaw clenched. “I just want my memories back.”

You sighed. He was worried; he was worried you  _couldn’t_  get his memories back. “I know,” you said. “And I promise I’ll get them back for you, but I need you to be  _patient_ , at least for a little while longer. Please.”

He took a deep breath, then nodded.

“Now do you want to stop for the day or do you want to keep going?”

He paused. “… .Let’s keep going.”

 

You had just finished the next floor of his mind and had opened the door to start the next staircase down, when you found that there was a staircase already there. It was old and wooden, and you could hear the sound of music and laughter floating up from the bottom.

“James, look.”

Bucky blinked as he looked down the stairs, his mouth parting slightly. A huge smile spread over your face as you looked at him, and you gestured down.

“It’s your mind, you go first.”

He paused for a second, then began the descent down the stairs. You followed behind him, and the music and laughter grew louder with every step.

Bucky was looking around when you met him at the bottom, and you were amazed by what you had found. It was a bar, or a club, you weren’t sure, but you knew it wasn’t modern. It was distinctly from the 1940s.

It was everything: the music, the clothes the people wore, the  _atmosphere_. You felt like you had just stepped into a movie.

A memory. You had finally found a memory. And it was a  _1940s memory_. You could barely believe your luck. Honestly, for the first resurfaced memory you thought it would be more…Winter Soldier. But this was,  _wow_ , it was more than you could ever hope for.

And then you saw him.

His hair was neatly cut, short and perfect. There was a grin on his face and he was  _laughing_ , next to some men you didn’t recognize. He was wearing a uniform and tie and holding a drink in his hand. And, God, for the first time you looked at him for how he was — a handsome young man who could steal your heart with a single glance.

“It’s you,” you said to Bucky, the Bucky standing next to you, who followed your gaze to his past self. His eyebrows raised and his mouth parted, and the two of you just watched for a moment.

A sudden realization washed over you. “You’re smiling,” you said in a tone laced with awe, “I…I’ve never seen you smile before.”

He looked over at you at that.

“You look so happy,” you added as you watched his past self, and you couldn’t stop the smile that kept returning to your lips. You glanced back at your companion, and even the current Bucky had the ghost of a smile on his face as he watched the memory.

 _“Hey, Stevie! Get over here!”_  the past Bucky called to the other side of the room. A blond man came over with an arm-full of drinks to pass out to their compatriots. Your mouth dropped open as you looked at him.

“That’s him,” the Bucky beside you said, “That’s Steve Rogers.”

“He looks so…young,” you murmured. His whole demeanour was different; he looked lighter, brighter, not so weighed down by the world. It made you feel…sad.

The next man to join Bucky and Steve and their companions had a familiar look to you. He had dark hair, darker than Bucky’s, more black than brown, and a moustache; he had an air of confidence and swagger, and eyed a couple of woman as they walked past.

 _“You’re late,”_ Steve said to the man, handing him a drink.

The past Bucky put his finished glass on the table.  _“Didn’t think you were gonna show, Stark.”_

Your mouth gaped open. “Stark. That’s Tony Stark’s father.” Your mind was drawing a blank. “What was his name again?”

“Howard Stark,” Bucky answered, and there was a tinge of surprise to his voice, like he didn’t expect to remember.

And as soon as the name was out of his mouth,

 

something

 

horrible

 

happened.

 

The

floor

was

pulled

out

from

under

you,

and

you

fell,

down,

           down,

                      down,

**into**

**a**

**black**

**abyss**

**of**

**nothingness.**

**You**

**couldn’t**

**even**

**scream,**

**the**

**feeling**

**of**

**falling**

**taking**

**over**

**your**

**entire**

**body**

**and**

**soul;**

**you**

**knew**

**even**

**if**

**you**

**tried**

**to**

**shout,**

**your**

**voice**

**would**

**be**

**swallowed**

**up.**

**You**

**desperately**

**tried**

**to**

**reach**

**out**

**to**

**Bucky,**

**but**

**you**

**couldn’t**

**see**

**anything**

**through**

**the**

**dark**

**void.**

**Stars.**

**There were stars.**

You landed on pavement, the force of the fall knocking the wind out of you. Had you not been in the telepathic plane, you would have broken a lot of bones from a fall like that, maybe even gotten yourself killed.

This didn’t help the fear that was beginning to seep into your unbroken bones as you sat up on the road, staring up at the night sky. The fall, however telepathic, left you disoriented, and your mind was convincing you that you felt pain from the landing. You searched your surroundings, almost blindly reaching out.

“James?”

Bucky came up from behind you and helped you to your feet. “What happened?” he asked you, his voice with an edge, like he was trying to mask panic.

Your breathing was becoming heavier. “Your mind…made an association.”

His eyes narrowed at you. “What do you mean my mind made an association? To what? Where are we?”

You looked back up at the sky, at the stars. “We fell for a long time,” you whispered.

Bucky’s mouth opened but he was interrupted by the sound of a car coming down the road from up ahead. A motorcycle followed behind.

You could only watch in horror as the motorcycle ran the car off the road and into a tree. You could only watch in horror as you realized the man on the motorcycle was the Winter Soldier.

“What is this?” Bucky asked. You didn’t have an answer.

The man who was driving the car crawled out of the wreck and onto the pavement. The Winter Soldier approached him and grabbed the back of his head.

 _“Sergeant Barnes?”_  the man said weakly as he looked up at the Soldier’s face.

 _“Howard? Howard!”_  the woman in the passenger’s seat was crying. With agonizing realization you suddenly understood the association Bucky’s mind had made.

You covered your mouth to keep from screaming in terror as the Soldier used his metal arm to dash Howard Stark’s face in. You watched, paralyzed, as he dragged Stark’s limb body back into the car, then walked slowly to the other side. His expression didn’t shift as he used his flesh hand to choke the life from Maria Stark’s throat.

You could barely speak. Your voice came out in half a sob. “Howard and Maria Stark died in a car crash… .”

The

next

second

you

were

falling

again.

Down,

            down,

                        down.

This time the sky was blue, but you were still near a road. There was some sort of parade or something going on…a black car driving down the road with a man wearing an American flag on his lapel… .

You watched the Winter Soldier shoot 35th President of the United States John F. Kennedy in the head; you heard the sounds of Jackie Kennedy’s shouts, was a bystander to the panic that ensued.

Down,

            down,

                       down,

                                   again.

The Winter Soldier dragged a woman kicking and screaming into an alleyway where he shot her several times. A frightened child screamed in terror.

_Down,_

_down,_

_down._

The Winter Soldier stood in the middle of a circle of barely adolescent girls.

 _“[Pay attention now, girls],”_  a woman said in Russian as the Soldier pointed a gun to the head of a person with a burlap sack over their head.

Suddenly Bucky, your Bucky, was the one holding the gun, and you were the one on the ground, bound and helpless, staring down the barrel.

**B**

**A**

**N**

**G**

**.**

* * *

 

The two of you recoiled out of the memories, returning to the reality of the small apartment, with its floors and walls, solid and real around you.

You had your hands over your mouth, choking back sobs, choking back bile, tears springing from your eyes in an unending stream. Bucky was standing, pacing, his hands threaded in his hair.

“I killed them,” he said angrily. “I killed my  _friend_ , someone I knew, someone who trusted me.” His face twisted in anguish. “That man, that was the  _president_.” He breathed, hard.

“ _James_ —” you tried to say.

“That woman had a kid!” he continued. “That room — those girls — what was I — how could I have—” He shouted out in anger, and grabbed a chair from the dining table, throwing it across the room.

You flinched, a waterfall in your eyes, a sob escaping your throat. “ _James, listen to me_ , I understand what you’re going through. This is  _not your fault_  —  _Hydra_  made you do those things—”

“You understand?” he yelled at you suddenly. “You  _understand_? How the hell could you understand what I’m going through, what I’ve done?”

You forced yourself to breathe, and you stood. “I know what it is to be afraid that you’re going to hurt someone. I  _know_  what it is to feel like your life is being  _controlled_  by someone else.” Your voice was steadily rising. “I know what it is to be forced into something you don’t want to do—” you held up your arm, your hand wrapped around the black bands over your orange tattoo, “I know what it is to have your  _own autonomy taken away from you_!”

Your grabbed the wrist of his metal arm and held it up next to your own tattooed one. “I know what it is to be afraid of what you are.” You breathed hard as you locked your eyes with his, unwavering, staring him down despite his height over you. “Don’t you get it? We’re the same. We’re  _the same_.”

He paused as he looked at you, his jaw clenching so hard you thought his teeth might break. He breathed through his nose, the anger and grief still palpable around him. When he spoke, his voice was low and cold, colder than you had ever heard him speak. “I know you live inside your own little pacifistic bubble, so I’ll explain something to you. Hurting someone,” he gently pried your once bruised but now healed wrist from his metal arm and glanced at it before returning his cold blue eyes to yours, “and slaughtering them in cold blood, is not the same.” He shook his head. “ _We_ , are not the same.”

No words came to your mouth as he turned and walked to the door, slamming it behind him.

He didn’t know.

He didn’t know that you knew what it felt like to feel the spray of someone else’s blood across your face.

He didn’t know that you knew what it felt to have someone else’s blood on your hands, figuratively and literally.

He didn’t know that you knew what it felt like to listen to someone scream in  _agony_  as you twisted a telepathic knife through their mind.

He didn’t know that you didn’t just know what it was like to hurt someone,

you  _knew_  what it was like to kill someone in cold blood,

to have them kill  _themselves_  in cold blood.

 

You fell to the floor, hugging your body as your forehead pressed to the ground, a silent wail escaping your mouth.

You wished he was right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I’ve been looking forward to doing this chapter for a while. I love experimenting with formatting and how it can affect how the story is told and what emotions it can convey. I did it in the second chapter, and I’m so glad I was able to do it again in this one. Hope you enjoyed the angst, it was a lot.


	12. Part 2 - Chapter Twelve: You Don't Scare Me (But I Should Scare You)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You try to wake Bucky when he’s having a nightmare; Bucky sees some things he shouldn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Buckle up, it's a long one.

You didn’t speak to each other for a week.

Bucky came home that night when you were in bed, as you were trying to sleep but failing absolutely. The next day he didn’t come back from his run until lunch, and gave you no explanation. He didn’t need to. After the horrors of yesterday you could understand his hesitancy to continue.

That didn’t make you any less angry with him.

It was easy for Bucky to keep his silence; he didn’t tend to speak most of the day even when things were normal. For you, it was more difficult. You had to find things to do to keep yourself busy.

You found yourself spending more time in the bookstore or at the park. You’d sit and read at either and dread the time when you’d have to return to the apartment, where it felt like the silence would break you.

Part of you said,  _It’s not his fault. He doesn’t know what you’ve done._

The other part said,  _That didn’t give him the right to say what he did to me._

The extra free time gave you a chance to explore the city a little bit. You found a market with fresh fruit and wonderful little nick nacks. You found a theatre and went to go see a movie. (You don’t remember the plot; you don’t remember the characters.) You picked up a new book to read. (Your eyes kept skipping off the pages.)

The worst part was that the stress was starting to affect your telepathy. You’d walk by people and pick up their thoughts without meaning to. You started getting headaches within large crowds, where it felt like everyone was shouting at you all at once.

You started dreamwalking again.

It was something you did when you were younger, something your mentors begged you to get control over.  _It’s dangerous to use your telepathy when you’re unconscious,_  they’d tell you,  _You could do something you don’t mean to. You could leave your mind open to others._

You didn’t  _mean_  to step into Bucky’s dream that night, seven days after you went through his memories, after your argument. You were thinking about him and…as soon as you were unconscious you just sort of…slipped into him.

The dream wasn’t anything concrete, but there was blood and pain and anguish and  _guilt_ , and soon you were awake and not asleep and you were watching Bucky toss and turn, sweat beading on his forehead.

As angry as you were with him, you couldn’t just sit there and let him suffer through the nightmare, so you crawled off your mattress and over to his makeshift bed of blankets and put your hand on his flesh arm. You shook him gently.

“James,” you whispered. “Wake up.” He mumbled something in Russian that you didn’t catch. You shook him again, this time with a little more force. “ _James_.”

In the next second Bucky had you flipped over on the blanket, pinned with his metal hand wrapped around your neck. He wasn’t squeezing, but you could still feel the pressure of it, understood what little force it would take to break you.

Panic thrummed under your chest. You took shallow breaths. “James,” you said, in a voice that was struggling to be calm, “You’re dreaming.”

His blue eyes were dead as they looked at you. You wrapped your hands around his wrist.

“James,” you repeated, “You’re having a nightmare. You need to  _let go_.”

His metal hand squeezed slightly. It was becoming hard to breathe.

“ _James_ ,” you squeaked, tears stinging the corners of your eyes. You hit his arm but he didn’t let go.

 

_BUCKY!_

 

His eyes blinked as realization washed into them, and his hand released your neck. He quickly got up and off of you, walking to the kitchen and gripping his hands on the edge of one of the chairs, back turned toward you.

You coughed and touched your hand to your neck. He hadn’t applied enough pressure to leaving bruising, but he had been very close to doing so.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and his voice was very small. It was the first thing he had said to you in a week.

You tucked your knees to your chest. “It’s not your fault,” you whispered.

“Stop saying that,” he snapped, his knuckles turning white as he held onto the chair, his head tilted to look over his shoulder at you. “I did it; it’s my fault.”

“You can’t take the blame for something you have no control over,” you told him, trying to keep your voice steady.

He whipped around to face you, blue eyes cold. “I could’ve killed you, just now, and you’re just going to pretend that it didn’t happen? You’re just going to pretend you’re not sleeping next to a murder? Someone who could take your life without a single thought?”

 _I could be saying the same thing to you_ , you thought, but pushed it away. You stood and walked over to him. You could feel him recoiling from you, so you kept a fair distance in between.

“Trust me when I say you couldn’t kill me if you tried,” you whispered. “That makes me the perfect person to help you.”

You could tell he was struggling to control his breathing. “I’ve done a lot of bad things.”

“I’ve seen worse.”

There was surprise in his eyes as he looked at you. Then he breathed through his nose, like a self-deprecating laugh. “I doubt that.”

Anger bubbled up within you, making your skin feel hot and prickly. “What the  _fuck_  do you even know about me, huh?” you  _snarled_  at him, your hands balling up into fists. “Do you know that not once in the two months that we’ve known each other you’ve even used my name? You never asked about it. Do you even know what it is?”

His mouth parted and he blinked at you; you cried out in anger and rubbed your hands over your face.

“ _God_ , I can’t fucking do this anymore, okay? I can’t—” You trailed off instead of finishing the sentence, too frustrated to come up with any more words. You stormed past him to the door, struggling to put on your shoes in your angry and exhausted state. You fumbled with the key to unlock the locks on the door, and gave up on the second one, throwing the keys across the room with as much force you could muster.

You slid down against the wall, closing your eyes and pressing your face into your hands. You were so tired.

“Y/N.”

You looked up at Bucky in surprise as he spoke.

“Y/N,” he repeated. “That’s your name.”

You sighed and rubbed your eyes with the heels of your hands. The two of you were quiet for a long time.

“What was your nightmare about?” you asked after a while, turning your gaze over to him.

He didn’t meet your eyes. “Does it matter?”

“Yes,” you said. “If it was an old memory, like the ones we found, then your mind is just rehashing what you already know into dreams. But if it’s new, if it’s one you haven’t seen before, it means your mind is starting to fix itself.”

He paused. “… .It was new.”

“That’s—” You hesitated and stopped yourself before saying the next word.

“That’s what?  _Good_?” he asked, an edge to his tone.

You sighed again, too tired to start up another argument. “Yes, for lack of a better word, it’s good.” You stood up and headed back to your mattress. “I’m going back to sleep.”

 

* * *

 

Bucky didn’t sleep for the rest of the night. Instead, he poured over his journal, writing down the memories that had manifested themselves into nightmares. He glanced over at Y/N every once in a while, watching her sleep fitfully.

He wondered what she had nightmares about, what scared her more than he did.

_“I’m not afraid of you.”_

He thought she should be.

He wondered what she meant when she said he couldn’t kill her if he tried. The words made it sound like a threat, but her tone of voice…was tired, sad.

 

Bucky still made an effort to avoid her come the next day. He just wasn’t ready to continue going through his memories, afraid of what they would find next. The nightmares were enough already.

He spent most of the day running through the city, running until his lungs burned and his limps ached, and then running some more.

He came back late, and Y/N was asleep when he walked in. He considered her for a moment before taking off his shoes and crawling into his makeshift bed on the floor.

He closed his eyes and wished for a dreamless sleep.

 

* * *

 

 _“Don’t you get it? We’re the same. We’re_  the same _.”_

 _“I know you live inside your own little pacifistic bubble, so I’ll explain something to you. Hurting someone, and slaughtering them in cold blood, is not the same._ We _, are not the same.”_

Bucky stood in front of the memory, watching himself address Y/N coldly, watched himself walk out and slam the door.

Then he watched as Y/N fell to her knees, arms wrapped around herself as she hunched over and pressed her head to the floor; her mouth was open and tears were pouring from her eyes.

Guilt washed over Bucky. He didn’t understand why his words had such an effect on her, but it was obvious that they did have an effect. He was so angry in that moment…at himself, at Hydra…even at Y/N, even though he knew she didn’t deserve it.

He stepped forward, to do what he wasn’t sure, when he heard voices coming from behind him.

_“Stop fidgeting, Y/N.”_

_“It hurts!”_

Bucky turned around to find the door behind him, the door that was normally the closet, open and leading to a corridor. Across the hall, through the door on the other side, was where the voices were coming from.

Hesitantly, Bucky stepped out into the hall. He automatically recognized it to be Y/N’s mind corridor — but he had no idea how he ended up there. He crossed to the other side of the hall and stood in the doorway of the other memory.

A teenage girl, probably no older than fifteen, was lying face-down on a table as a woman with a tattoo gun was drawing a pattern on the skin of her back. The girl looked oddly familiar, but it took about a few seconds of observing before he realized it was Y/N.

There were tears in her eyes.  _“Why do I have to do this? Can’t I just get a necklace or bracelet or something?”_

 _“You know how important this is, Y/N.”_  In terms of appearance, the woman next to her might as well have been her opposite.  _“You’re the [].”_  The word she said was…muffled somehow, as if the memory had been tampered with.  _“You can’t be taking this lightly.”_

Teenage Y/N paused for a moment to squeeze her eyes shut as the tattoo artist continued.  _“… .Okay, Mom.”_

“You shouldn’t be here, y’know.”

Bucky was startled by the voice that suddenly came from behind him, and he turned around. Standing in the hall, arms crossed in a defiant manner, was a little girl. She looked up at him with a pout, her eyes narrowed, staring him down as if she wasn’t over a foot shorter than he was.

He raised his eyebrows at her. “I don’t know how to leave,” he said. It was a poor explanation given he was just caught snooping, but he didn’t know what else to say.

She considered this, then grabbed his metal hand, “I can show you!” and began pulling him down the corridor.

Obediently, he followed. He looked through different doors as they passed them; unlike when Y/N had taken him through her memories, these doors were all open.

“Why am I here?” he asked the Little Girl. She made a shrugging motion.

“I dunno. Y/N sometimes dreamwalks when she’s stressed. Works both ways, you leave your mind open and ta-da! Even a non telepath can walk in when they’re in the dream realm. She probably sucked you in by accident.”

“And who are you?”

She snorted instead of answering, continuing to tow him along. He got bits and pieces of things as they passed different doors, but he saw enough to notice that the memories weren’t in order.

“I thought Y/N organizes things chronologically? This seems…random,” he commented. “And why are all of the doors open? Last time I was here they were all closed.”

“Things are more jumble-y when you’re sleeping,” was the only explanation she gave.

 

The two of them walked for a little while longer, where they passed a door that was only open slightly, just ajar instead of all the way. He wouldn’t have noticed it, except the sound coming from inside caught his attention. Someone was screaming.

The door had red paint on it.

Having long-since let go of his hand, the Little Girl had to retrace her steps when she found that Bucky had stopped following her. He swiped his fingers down the door’s surface, looking at the red that came back on his skin when he pulled away, just like he did the last time he was in Y/N’s mind corridor.

The Little Girl gave him a hesitant look. “We’re not supposed to go in there,” she said. But Bucky ignored her words, and pushed the door all the way open.

 

Not a lot of things scare Bucky, not that he can remember, anyway. He was a highly trained assassin, fear didn’t have a place in the job description.

But this.

This scared him.

 

She was barely conscious, strung up by her wrists so the rest of her body hung limply, her feet, but not her knees, touching the ground. There were cuts and wounds ranging from small to large on every bit of visible skin — which was most of it. With the exception of her face and major arteries, her arms and legs and stomach and sides and chest and shoulders were  _bleeding_. A string of blood mixed with saliva ran from her mouth; there were bruises on her face instead of lacerations.

 

_I’ve seen worse._

There were other details — her clothes, for example, were almost ritualistic the way that they were designed, showing enough skin but not showing everything; there was a symbol painted on the wall that matched her tattoo — but Bucky wasn’t paying attention to them. He was focused on Y/N, trying to figure out why this memory was having such an effect on him.

Maybe it was the fact that he promised he’d protect her. Maybe it was the fact that she was the only person in the world right now who could help him, who  _would_  help him.

Maybe he cared more than he realized.

 

He turned his head to look back when he felt hands bunching up his shirt. His eyes found the Little Girl, who was now pressed to his side. She was afraid.

“The bad men did this to her,” she whispered.

Bucky’s eyebrows knitted together. “The ‘bad men’?”

She nodded. “Like the Octopus Men.”

“‘Octopus Men’?” He thought about her wording for a moment. “Hydra? Hydra did this to her?”

“No,” she said, shaking her head, “the other men.” She held up her hand and stretched it big, then tapped her open palm.

He gave her a confused look. “What does that  _mean_?”

The Little Girl suddenly whimpered and buried her face into his side. Bucky looked back up at the memory, watching as a man approached the tortured and strung up Y/N with a knife.

Wanting to know more but understanding the Little Girl’s fear, he ushered her out the door and shut it behind the both of them. She took his hand again and tugged him along.

“You have to leave now,” she said as she pulled him.

He sighed as he followed her. “Yeah, I know.”

It didn’t take long before they seemed to reach the end of the hallway. The door that the Little Girl pointed to had a bright, white light coming out of it. “There. That’s the way out,” she told him. “You’ll probably wake up after you leave.”

“Thanks,” he said. And he had every intention of leaving, he did, it’s just… .

He saw something out of the corner of his eye. It was a separate hallway that branched off the corridor they were in, a hallway that had only one door.

The door was closed.

More than just closed, it was  _locked_.

And it had the symbol of Y/N’s tattoo painted in bright orange on its surface.

“What’s that?” he asked, pointing to down the adjacent hallway.

The Little Girl, following his hand, blanched. She seemed to shrink into herself, make herself small. “Bad,” was all she said in response to his question.

Bucky’s eyes narrowed. “What’s in there?”

“ _Bad_ ,” she repeated, more forcefully this time.

Deciding that she wasn’t going to tell him anything, he turned and began walking toward the door at the end of the other hallway. The Little Girl ran after him. She pulled at his arm, tugging him in the opposite direction. Bucky was stronger. He kept walking until he reached it, and put his hand on the handle.

The Little Girl was persistent. “You can’t! Go! In! It’s  _locked_! Y/N locked it!”

“All the doors are open when she dreams, right?” Bucky mused. “Then why wouldn’t the locked door be unlocked?”

He twisted his wrist. The handle turned. The door opened.

“ _NO_!” the Little Girl screamed at him, and suddenly Bucky was thrown back, his head feeling like someone was ramming a jackhammer into it.

He was barely able to lift his head, but he managed to watch as behind the door the teenage version of Y/N stood next to a blind woman.

_“Let me show you what I’ve seen, Y/N. Let me show you your future.”_

Abruptly, the scene changed into something less clear, like it was underwater. A grown Y/N on her knees in the middle of a golden field; she was laying on top of something, crying out in anguish. A glint and gleam of something metal twinkled beneath her in the sunlight.

Then her face, it twisted. She stopped crying. Her eyes turned violet, then inexplicably filled with gold.

 

The door shut with a  _SLAM_  before Bucky could see anything more.

“ _ **GET OUT!**_ ” the Little Girl shrieked at him, and he flew backwards through the exit.

 

* * *

 

Bucky’s head was pounding when he blinked awake, returning to reality. Beside him, he heard Y/N breathing hard. He kept still as she got up and walked to the bathroom. He watched her splash water onto her face, then stare at herself in the mirror for a long time.

 

She was right.

 

He knew nothing about her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: First chapter that had a Bucky POV. Thoughts? Feelings? Tell me what you think!


	13. Part 2 - Chapter Thirteen: Breathe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You and Bucky take a break and go swimming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Bucky and Y/N leave the city in this chapter. None of what happens is geologically true, so don’t try to look it up on Google Maps lmao

It was July and it was hot: hot enough that sleeping became even more difficult than it normally was, hot enough that sleeping with blankets on, sleeping with a  _shirt_  on, was out of the question. **  
**

Which is why you were in your bra and pajama shorts when you woke up that morning, expecting Bucky to be out and being surprised when he was sitting at the dining table instead.

You hesitated before speaking. The last time you had spoken to him was the night before last’s, and that hadn’t exactly gone so well. “Hi.” Surprise coloured your tone.

Instead of greeting you back, he stared at you. He looked at you in a way that he hadn’t before, almost as if he was seeing you for the first time.

(You didn’t think about the raised lines that criss-crossed small and large across your body; it didn’t even occur to you the fact that your scars were clearly on display as you wore only a bra and shorts.)

“What?” you asked him, and his eyes met yours. His answer surprised you.

“I want to keep going,” he said. “With my memories.”

Your eyebrows raised and the start of a smile made its way onto your lips. “Really?”

He nodded. “Yeah.”

A full blown smile replaced the small one. “I’m really glad, James. It’ll be good to get back into things.” You walked over and sat across from him at the table. “But before we start everything up again, we need to take a break.”

His eyebrows knitted together. “Isn’t that what we’ve been doing?”

“No, what we’ve been doing is sitting around not speaking to each other for a week. I need a real break, James,” you said, rubbing your hand over your face. “I need to get out of this apartment, get out of this city. I feel like — like I can’t  _breathe_ , I just—”

“Okay.”

You blinked at Bucky. “I — what?”

“Taking a break is a good idea. What were you thinking?” he asked. You were momentarily stunned. For some reason, you thought he’d fight you on this. But instead his head was slightly tilted, waiting for you to speak.

Your smile returned shyly. “Well, I was thinking maybe we could check the building’s storage space and see if Hydra provided us with any camping gear. That could be fun, right?”

He nodded. “If you want.”

 

Luckily, the storage room for the Hydra safehouse did, in fact, have camping gear with a tent and a couple of sleeping bags. You found a bus that would take you out of the city, and you rode it for an hour until you reached a campground.

Given that you had never been camping before in your life, you let Bucky set up the tent. You sat with the backpacks and supplies at the picnic table by the firepit, alternating between reading your book and watching him work.

“We should go exploring after we’re done setting up,” you said.

“Yeah, okay.”

 

The Romanian forest was beautiful. Your whole life, you’d lived in cities; it made you appreciate walking through nature just a little bit more.

The two of you were quiet as you walked, but it was a peaceful sort of quiet. The fresh air felt cleansing, like it was washing your soul of the hurt and pain of the past week, the stir-crazy of the past two months.

It wasn’t long before you could hear the sound of running water. The two of you came upon a waterfall, a  _real waterfall_ , that poured into a lake that ran out into a river. You were mesmerized. Then you started taking off your shoes.

Bucky’s eyes narrowed at you. “What are you doing?”

You took off your socks. “Going swimming,” you said with a grin.

He grasped your arm with his flesh hand. “It’s not safe.”

You locked eyes with him as you undid your button and zipper with one hand, then shimmied out of your shorts and stepped out of them. “I can swim.”

His jaw clenched as he looked at you, his eyes flicking down briefly to your bare legs. Your skin felt hot under his scrutiny. “Someone could see you.”

“We’re the only two people here,” you whispered, a playful smile on your face. “Relax, it’s not like I’m going skinny dipping. You’d have to buy me a drink first.”

He seemed surprised by your forwardness, and let go of your arm. You didn’t really mean to flirt with him, but you were in a good mood. Being out here, in the fresh air in the middle of a forest next to a freakin’ waterfall, was good. You felt good,  _happy_ , for the first time in a while.

You took off your shirt in a single motion and put it on the pile of clothes you had created. Then you gave Bucky a smile before diving into the pool of blue.

The water was cold, but the day was hot. You couldn’t remember the last time you had gone swimming; it felt nice. Your face broke the surface as you swam back up, and you saw Bucky staring at you as you treaded water below.

“Come swim with me!” you shouted up at him.

He gave you an unsure look.

“Please?” you added.

He sighed and you saw him survey the forest around you, checking for other people, for any dangers. “My clothes will get wet,” he said when his eyes found yours again.

“Then take them off,” you said in a teasing tone. “C’mon! It’s hot outside and you’re always wearing long sleeves and jeans. Come and cool down.”

He paused for a moment, his lips pursed. Then he pulled his shirt over his head.

It was strange, the sudden shift that you felt. Bucky had been a lot of things to you — kidnapper, stranger, someone who needed your help, protector, acquaintance, and maybe,  _maybe_  even friend — but there was one thing you had never saw him as. Not until now.

You recognized that he was attractive, that you knew, ever since you saw him in the 1940s. But you were never attracted  _to_  him — sure, there were those times when he was protecting you and his hands were on your stomach, on your side, and it affected you; but you chalked that up to being touch-starved. This was the first time you looked at him and your skin burned with something else.

He was an assassin, so of course he was going to be fit, but it just caught you off guard the way it made you feel as your eyes traced the muscles of his stomach, the planes of his chest. His shoulders and arms were practically bursting. You barely paid any attention to the metal of his left side, you were so distracted by everything else. Even the line of his jaw seemed sharper.

He unbuttoned his jeans and took them off, then jumped into the water in his boxers. His head surfaced soon after and he swam over to you.

Even the cold water couldn’t cool your skin now.

“It looks worse than it is,” he said when he reached you.

“What?” You didn’t realize you had still been staring until you had to lift your eyes to meet his. You blinked, then glanced back down at his chest. “Oh.” He thought you had been looking at his arm, his metal arm. For the first time you noticed the scars there, where the arm met his shoulder.

You looked back up at him. “Does it hurt?” you whispered.

“Chafes sometimes,” he answered. A silence followed his words. You needed to break it; you needed to get him to think about something other than what Hydra did to him. (You needed to think about something else than his bare chest and close proximity.)

“We had an indoor pool in the house I grew up in,” you said suddenly, and you weren’t exactly sure where it came from. “Some of my happiest memories come from that pool.”

He considered this. “Sounds nice.” A pause. “Must’ve been a big house.”

“Well, you have to be rich to be in the Club,” you said bitterly, dipping your mouth under the water and breathing through your nose.

“What club?”

You re-surfaced the bottom of your face. “The He— y’know what? Doesn’t matter. It’s just some dumb thing my parents are apart of.”

His eyebrows knitted together. “You never talk about your family.”

You stared down at the water, your arms making ripples as you kept yourself up. “… .Do you know what it’s like to believe in something, to work toward something, and then realize it’s all a lie? To think you’re doing something…good, and then realize that maybe it’s not? That it’s…bad?” You chewed on your lip. You found Bucky looking at you when you lifted your eyes from the water. Your lips parted. “Of course you do. Stupid question.”

He looked like he was going to say something, but you beat him to it. “Hey! Watch me jump off that ledge!” You swam to the side of the pool and got out before he could protest. You could feel his eyes watching your movements carefully as you climbed a ledge on the side of the waterfall. When you turned back, you could see that Bucky had gotten out of the water and was now sitting on the edge. His metal arm glinted and gleamed, twinkling in the sunlight. For once, he seemed content.

You tucked your knees to your chest as you jumped, creating a wave of water as your cannonball dive hit the surface. You stayed underneath the water, stealthily swimming toward the edge of the pool.

Then in one swift motion you resurfaced and grabbed Bucky’s arm, pulling him back in with you.

It didn’t take the two of you very long to come back up — Bucky pushing his wet hair away from his face, and you giving him a mischievous look with your eyes, the bottom half of your head still submerged under the water. Ever the silent type, Bucky only gave you a  _look_  as he now treaded water.

You filled your mouth with water and spat it out at him.

Then you laughed.

It was more like a giggle, playful and lighthearted. You were being juvenile and stupid and you  _loved_  it. It felt like it had been a long time since you got to act like you were young. (You had to grow up so fast.)

Bucky blinked and wiped his face, and—

You gaped at him.

“What?” he said.

A full blown grin set onto your face. “You smiled,” you answered. “I made you smile.” It was true. A smile had pulled at the corners of his mouth at your antics, possibly for the first time in a very, very long time.

He did it again, tentatively, almost shyly, as if he’d forgot how. Your heart filled with warmth.

He looked away, but the smile didn’t disappear. “Is it really that big of a deal?”

You splashed him with your hand. “Yes!”

His eyes narrowed at you, and he splashed you back. You splashed  _him_  back. He splashed you. You him. Him you. Then you spat out water at him again.

He paused, and then a more devious form of a smile replaced the innocent one. You squeaked and swam away as he lunged for you, and you climbed out of the pool and onto the grass.

He easily caught up with you and threw you over his shoulder. You squealed in response, and you thought you felt him hesitate until you started  _laughing_ , laughing so hard your stomach hurt. He walked you toward the water and you  _shrieked_  when he threw you in.

He had climbed back into the water by the time you resurfaced. You splashed him again for good measure.

“So you do know how to have fun,” you commented.

“Guess so,” he said, the small smile still on his lips.

You looked over at the waterfall. “C’mon,” you said, gesturing for him to follow as you swam toward the rushing water.

You sat against the rock wall, closing your eyes as the water washed over your head and shoulders. You could feel Bucky join you at your side.

“See?” you said as you opened your eyes to look at him, the volume of your voice just over the roar of the waterfall. “This is nice. You worry too much, you know.”

“I worry about you.”

 

He didn’t mean to say it. But he couldn’t stop thinking about his trip into her memories, the way she was practically bleeding out onto the floor — his visceral reaction to it, the fear he felt for her. He still didn’t completely understand his feelings behind it.

 

Your lips parted as you looked at him, surprised by his comment. Your relationship with him was…tentative at best. You helped him with his memories, and he kept you from landing in the hands of Hydra again. But you never thought… .

He worried about you. He gave a damn past the whole telepathy thing. He gave a damn about  _you_ , just you.

You couldn’t stop the shy smile that made its way onto your face, and you so desperately tried to stay afloat in the intense blue of his eyes. You swam out from under the waterfall so you could face him.

“Want to see me jump off the top?”

He smiled at you, small and crooked, and nodded. You began swimming to the edge so you could get out.

“Just be careful, Y/N.”

The sound of your name coming off his tongue was foreign and sent a shiver up your spine. You climbed out of the water and pretended the goosebumps that covered your flesh was from the cold of the pool.

Surprisingly, it wasn’t that difficult to climb to the top of the waterfall. When you got up there, you slowly stepped into the river, careful not to get swept up into the current.

 

As it turned out, you didn’t have to worry about the current, because the hand that was suddenly tangled in your hair was enough to pull you down under the water. You coughed and sputtered when you surfaced, and looked up to find a man attached to the hand in your hair.

“Found you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Fanservice chapter. With angsty ending. Thoughts?


	14. Part 2 - Chapter Fourteen: Silence, Violence (Sometimes It's The Same)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You and Bucky go up against the Hydra soldiers that ambushed you.

You felt so alone in your apartment in Hell’s Kitchen. **  
**

You sat on the windowsill, listening to the rain, watching it drip and slide down the glass. You watched the people on the street below, some with umbrellas, some without. All going somewhere. Home. Work. Some kind of recreational activity. A loved one.

You couldn’t get used to the concept. Being alone. There was a time where you loved it — relished the feeling of living by yourself. No one to judge you, tell you what to do. No expectations. Sure, you felt lonely from time-to-time, but you never had a problem with living alone. You liked the silence. It was peaceful.

People often equate peace with silence. But there’s a difference; peace and silence can exist together, but not always. Because now?

Now you were suffocating.

You had spent practically every second of every minute of every hour of every day of  _two years_ with the same person — living with him, working with him, breathing with him. He was your ally, your friend, your partner. And now he was gone.

And you were here. Back in New York. Where you shouldn’t be. Where you  _really_  shouldn’t be.

You never thought you could feel worse than when you were  _literally_  on the run from Hydra, but somehow you did. Somehow, things were simpler back then.

 

* * *

 

  **Two Years and Four Months Ago**

 

You swallowed a mouthful of water as the man plunged your head back down under the river, panic flooding your system in a violent rush, your adrenaline spiking. You felt a stab of pain in the back of your head as you must have hit a rock at the bottom.

Your vision was swimming by the time the man brought you back up, and you were practically vomiting up water as he lifted you to a more vertical position, his hand still pulling your hair.

“James,” you croaked out, your hands reaching to grasp the wrist of the man. “James!”

The man dragged and held you against him, putting his hand over your mouth as he pulled you out of the water and onto the grass. You struggled against him, but your head was spinning.

You breathed harshly through your nose, vaguely registering another man in the vicinity.

“Yeah we got her,” Man 2 was speaking into his radio.

 _“Want me to call it in?”_  the radio crackled back.

“Hold off for now. Hydra wants the Soldier, too. We can’t leave without him.”

_The Soldier. Hydra wants the Soldier._

Bucky.

The back of your head was throbbing; you were trying to reach out telepathically, but it was weak.

 _Bucky_ , your mind whispered to his, blindly grasping for him. You were barely pushing through.  _Bucky. Help._

“You got eyes on him?” the second man asked his radio.

_“Not yet. But he’s gotta be around here somewhere.”_

_No._

_No._

_No._

This couldn’t happen. You couldn’t be taken by Hydra again. You couldn’t be.

And Bucky. You had just started to get close to him. Things had just gotten better between you. He was making progress. You couldn’t let Hydra just erase all of that.

Your struggles against Man 1 were becoming more feeble by the minute. Soon, he was holding you up more than he was holding you in place; you were pretty sure the back of your head was bleeding.

You heard a twig snap.

Suddenly, Man 2 was being put into a headlock by your metal-armed protector. Bucky was clothed, the fabric sticking to his skin and his hair dripping wet. He was giving Man 1 a death glare, his blue eyes icy.

Man 1 removed his hand from your mouth, and something metal pressed under your jaw. You weren’t quite out of it enough not to recognize that it was a gun.

“There you are, Sergeant Barnes,” Man 1 said with an amused lit to his tone. “Why don’t you let go of my friend there, huh? This doesn’t have to get messy.”

You could see Bucky looking between you and the man — you could feel his hesitation.

“Accidents happen when dealing with a dangerous mutant.” The mouth of the gun pressed more harshly to the underside of your jaw, to the point where it was almost painful. “Hydra would forgive us if there was a casualty.”

They wouldn’t. You knew that — but you weren’t sure Bucky did. He was still under the impression that you had never killed anyone, so how could he ever see through the man’s bluff?

 

Bucky was panicking. He was the Winter Soldier — an expert combatant, marksman, killer. But he found himself unable to think straight as he looked over Y/N, barely clothed with a gun to her head; she was stumbling in the man’s grip, her eyes slightly glazed. At some point over the two months that he’d known her, Y/N had become more than just the person who could give him back his memories. She became someone he gave a shit about. Someone he  _really_  didn’t want to see dead.

(A friend.)

Bucky let go of the man he had in a chokehold. The first man gave him a grin and removed the gun from Y/N’s jaw. The second man, the one now on the ground trying to catch his breath, took out his radio.

“Do it  _now_ ,” he said quickly, and Bucky barely heard a crackling  _“Confirmed”_ before a bullet tore through his right shoulder.

 

_**BUCKY!** _

 

He heard the cry ring through his mind as he fell, bleeding and disorientated, to the ground. He pressed his hand to his shoulder as he attempted to get up. He was on his knees when the second man put a gun to his head. He watched Y/N’s renewed sense of panic and fear as she struggled against the first man, tears in her eyes as she looked at him.

The second man dug his hand into Bucky’s wounded shoulder, and he let out an involuntary shout of pain.

The next thing he knew, his face was being splattered with blood and matter as the second man was shot through the head. When Bucky looked back to the source of the fatality, he found the first man with his arm outstretched, smoking gun pointed in the second man’s direction. Y/N had her hand pressed to the first man’s head, her eyes a violent purple colour like he had never seen before.

It was like all her pacificistic beliefs had gone out the window, her face completely devoid of emotion as she watched the second man fall into the river. His head coloured the water red with blood and brain matter.

Y/N looked to the first man, her violet eyes piercing into his. With a blank stare, the man turned to the river and stepped inside.

Then he pressed his gun to his own head and pulled the trigger.

If Bucky had continued watching, he would’ve seen the man fall down, would have seen his body float lifeless to the edge of the cliff. But he wasn’t watching the man anymore; he was watching Y/N. He was watching as the purple in her eyes faded, watching as  _she_  watched the dead man go over the waterfall.

Horror flooded her expression, and her eyes, panicked, darted to the other man lying half in the water, a crater where his face once was.

Her mouth dropped open and a small cry of anguish escaped. She covered her mouth, frozen, shaking.

 

_Don’t you get it? We’re the same._

 

Bucky swayed on his knees. He pressed his metal hand to his shoulder; he had lost a lot of blood. His vision was becoming blurry as he looked at her.

“ _Y/N_.”

Her head snapped to him as if she had forgotten he was there. “Oh, God, Bucky—” She darted over to him, wrapping her arms around his middle on his left side; she struggled to help him up, his metal arm around her shoulders and her hand firmly pressed to his bleeding wound.

 

* * *

 

When you got to the bottom of the waterfall, you haphazardly threw your clothes and shoes back on. It took you a long time to get Bucky back to your campsite. You had half supported, half dragged him the entire way, and he was  _not_  light. Between the amount of muscle he was packing, and the legitimate  _metal arm_  attached to his side, it took an enormous effort to get him back.

You couldn’t think about anything else besides Bucky right now. You wouldn’t. If you did you would see the image of the two men you had killed; you would remember the sniper you had found telepathically, the sniper who you had made hang himself in the tree from where he had shot your friend.

You set Bucky down at the picnic table, then rushed to grab the first-aid kit you had packed. You pulled it out of your bag and sat next to him.

Your hands shook as you opened the box. “What do I… .” Your head was spinning. The adrenaline rush that had overridden your head injury was wearing off. You took shallow breaths as you looked over his bleeding shoulder.

His eyes were glazed. “Bullet is through-and-through,” he said, words slightly slurred. “There’s nothing to take out. Just have to stitch it up.”

“Okay.” You helped him take off his shirt. You took out the needle and stitching, and then blinked back involuntary tears as you wiped away the excess blood first.

You thought of something. “Hang on—” You pulled a flask out of your bag, unscrewed the top, then poured it over Bucky’s wound. He hissed and you winced.

“I-I saw that in a movie once. And a TV shows. Show. Several movies actually — Should I not have done that?” you asked, rambling nervously, your whole body still shaking.

“Alcohol’s a disinfectant,” he said. “That was right.”

You put down the flask and picked up the needle and stitching. You gripped his shoulder, trying to be gentle, and began threading the needle into his skin.

You felt sick.

As always, Bucky was taking the pain better than anyone you had ever seen. You hoped you were doing an okay job, what with your shaking hands and blurry vision.

About halfway through the front side, you noticed him staring at you.

“Please don’t tell me ‘I told you so’,” you said with a choked-back sob, “I really can’t take that right now.”

“I’m sorry.”

Your eyes snapped up to his, surprised. “What?” You thought for a second, pressing your hand to his shoulder to staunch the bleeding as you paused. “Bucky — James — if you’re going to take the blame for what happened, this is  _not_  your fau—”

“I’m sorry about what I said, before. That you didn’t understand what it is to be afraid of what you are.”

You froze, staring at him, eyes wide and mouth parted. When you didn’t say anything, he continued.

“Why did you let me say those things to you?” he asked quietly. “When you knew it wasn’t true?”

Your throat constricted; your lip quivered and you willed back any more tears. “… .Because I wished it was. Because as horrible as what you said to me was, it…it was  _nice_ , to live in that bubble. To pretend.” Unable to keep his gaze any longer, you went back to stitching up his shoulder. You had him turn on the bench to face the forest so you could start on his back.

“That’s not the first time something like that has happened to you, is it?” he asked, and you knew he was referring to the men, the dead men, and the carelessness in which you had taken them out.

“No,” you replied simply.

“How you escaped Hydra?”

“… .Yeah.”

He was quiet for a few moments as you worked, then,

“You saved my life. Thank you.”

You breathed through your nose, your teeth clenching together. You swallowed, thinking about the casualties you had caused. “Don’t,” you said, your voice a broken, desperate whisper, “Don’t thank me. Please.”

He said nothing in response, and you were grateful.

When you were done stitching up his wounds, you taped some gauze on top for extra security (which was also something you had seen in several movies and TV shows. Honestly, your entire medical knowledge at this point was coming straight from  _Grey’s Anatomy_ ). You packed the needle and the rest of the stitching back into the first-aid kit, and stood up to put it back where you had found it.

Bad idea.

You immediately swooned — the head injury finally catching up with you. Luckily, you had barely made it a step from the bench before your vision went black for a moment, and Bucky was able to catch you before you hit the ground.

His metal arm, which had been in the sun and heat, was comfortingly warm around your back. You felt his flesh hand gently feel the back of your head, and you felt a slight stab of pain as he found the source of your sudden swooning. He set you down on the bench and picked up the first-aid kit where you had dropped it.

“Does it need stitches?” you asked blearily.

“No,” he said. He pressed some gauze to the wound. “Could’ve been worse.” He took your hand and replaced his with yours at the back of your head. “Keep the pressure. Don’t get up for a little while.”

You sighed and did what he said, leaning your back against the picnic table. The two of you were quiet for a few moments. You listened to the sound of birds chirping, listened to the trees rustling in the wind. You listened to his breathing, slow and steady next to you.

“I have to tell you something,” he said after a while, and you turned to look at him, your eyebrows raised for him to continue. “Last night, when I was sleeping, I…I was in your head. I don’t know how I got there, but—”

“I know.”

He gave you a surprised look. “You know?”

You gave him a small smile. “I’d be a pretty shitty telepath if I couldn’t tell when someone was poking around in my head, looking at things they shouldn’t.”

He exhaled. “I’m sorry.”

You shook your head. “It’s not your fault. I kind of sucked you in by accident.” You searched his eyes, nervous now. “What did you see?”

“I…I looked behind one of your red rooms,” he said slowly, and you held your breath as to which one he was talking about. “The one where you were being tortured.”

You nodded, your eyes not meeting his anymore.

“I asked the little girl in your head who did that to you, but she wouldn’t tell me,” he said. “She just did this—” He held out his hand, palm-up, and rested his pointer finger on top.

Your eyes narrowed at the gesture, then cleared with realization. “Do you mean she did this—” You held your hand straight up, opened wide, and briefly took your other hand away from the back of your head to tap your palm several times before putting it back.

He studied the gesture. “Yeah, that. What does it mean?”

You chuckled darkly. “Leave it to my subconscious to tell you exactly what you need to know without telling you at all.”

He searched your eyes, waiting for an answer. You sighed and decided you might as well tell him.

“How much do you know about an organization called the Hand?” you asked him. His eyebrows pulled together and his eyes flitted back and forth, thinking.

“That sounds familiar,” he said, “But a lot of things sound familiar to someone whose memories are stored in the back of their mind where they can’t reach.”

“The Hand is like Hydra,” you began to explain, “Except older. Much older. But they’re both secret organizations that like pulling strings behind the scenes. Like Hydra, the Hand wanted me. They literally pulled me off the street. But…they didn’t know for sure what I was. They wanted me to…confirm that I was what they were looking for. I wouldn’t. It was two weeks before I escaped.” You swallowed. “Before I escaped like we escaped today.”

You could see in his eyes that he understood your phrasing.

“Anyway, it must have been a small branch of the Hand that wanted me,” you continued, “because nobody ever came back to get me. I should have left New York after that, but I was young and scared and I didn’t know what to do. I was lucky that whoever was running the Hand, they…either didn’t know about me, or they were disinterested.”

“Why did they want you?” he asked, grasping for something. “Why does  _Hydra_  want you? I’ve seen what you can do, but… .All of this? There’s something you’re not telling me.”

“It’s safer if you don’t know,” you said quietly. You would have scratched at your wrists, but your one hand was preoccupied at the back of your head, so instead your free hand scratched the bottom of your palm, as close as you could get to the black bands.

Bucky watched your movements. “The other memory I saw,” he began, “It was when you got your tattoo.”

You stopped scratching and looked up at him.

“I…know I’m not supposed to ask about it,” he continued, “but I saw the original design. The double bands around your wrists weren’t part of it.”

You shook your head. “I added those. Later. To remind myself that I am bound to…what I am. To what I’m going to be,” you added in a smaller voice. “That I can’t change it.”

He looked like he was restraining himself from asking certain questions. Instead, he mentioned, “I saw your mom.”

“Oh, right,” you said. “She was there when I got the tattoo.”

“She doesn’t look anything like you,” he commented.

“No, she wouldn’t,” you said. “I’m adopted.”

He didn’t seem surprised, and he waited quietly, as if for you to continue. You fidgeted in your seat.

“Adopted isn’t really the right word,” you began. “I mean, it is that way on paper, but it’s not like my parents went to an orphanage looking for a kid. They  _found_  me…in a basket, floating in the river — like some goddamn Bible story. Guess I can tell from that the kind of people my real parents were.” You rested your one arm over your stomach and exhaled through your nose. “My mom always said she could tell I had telepathic potential from the moment she laid eyes on me, even though I was just a baby. Y’know…sometimes I wonder. If she would’ve even taken me in if I hadn’t been. If I hadn’t been…useful. God knows they’re too busy with their fucking Hellfire Club to give a shit about a kid.”

Bucky, who had been watching you carefully since the beginning of your story, leaned closer, his eyes narrowed. “Hellfire Club?”

You sort of snapped out of your trip down memory lane, acknowledging what you had just said in front of him. “Oh — right. It’s a…it’s like a gentlemen’s club, for mutants. My parents are part of the telepathic branch.”

He seemed to be going over what you said. “ _Mutants_. The Hydra soldier back there…he called you that. What does it mean?”

Wow, he really  _was_  out of the loop. You hesitated with your answer, trying to figure out the best way to explain it. “Mutant is another term for an evolved species of man. It’s like  _enhanced_ , but mutants weren’t born human, they weren’t  _made_  into what they are. They just are. You used to be human, before Hydra changed you, but I never was. An argument could be made that you’re still technically human, but I’m not. I’m not  _human_ , Bucky. James,” you corrected yourself with a wince. You didn’t meet his eyes anymore. “Maybe that’s why my real parents didn’t want me.” It was added as a quiet afterthought, but Bucky, with his enhanced hearing, heard it just fine.

“I want you.”

You looked back up at him, eyebrows knitted together. He seemed to stumble a bit over his choice of words, his cheeks tinting with colour.

“I mean, I don’t care that you’re not human. That doesn’t matter. And I…care about what happens to you. Not just because of the telepathy thing, but because…I don’t have anyone else.”

Your heart seized up and melted at the same time. You couldn’t stop the tears that leaked silently from your eyes, but you didn’t want to, either.

“We  _are_  the same,” he added. “And I need you.”

A gentle smile pulled at your lips, and your hand found his flesh one on the table top. You squeezed it lightly.

“Also,” he said. “You can call me Bucky, if you want to.”

And suddenly, you didn’t feel so alone anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some more backstory on the Reader, and a glimpse into the future. Did u catch the comic book reference? Don’t forget to leave behind your thoughts!


	15. Part 2 - Chapter Fifteen: Nightmares

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You find a way to help Bucky with his nightmares.

Over the next months, you and Bucky fell into a well-oiled routine. Things between you two had gotten better ever since the camping trip — you talked more, you felt more comfortable around each other. You smiled more. He smiled more. You didn’t feel as trapped in that little apartment as you used to be. **  
**

Bucky’s memories came back slowly. You would find at least one per week, two if you were lucky, but that didn’t happen often. Honestly, you were grateful that you were getting anything at all. Unfortunately, most of the memories were, to put it gently: not from the ‘40s.

There were things from his life as James Buchanan Barnes, but often times they were small things, little moments. But it didn’t matter to Bucky how insignificant a fact about himself from the 1940s was, he was always happy when one of them showed up. Especially when it was better than the alternative.

His… _not ‘40s_  memories ranged from short to long, from indiscernible moments to things that were more…explicit. And every time an explicit memory came up, you would have to take a break for a few days before continuing, just to ensure both your sanity.

It didn’t stop the nightmares, though. Every once in a while, you’d be woken up by a nightmare that Bucky was having, either through accidentally entering it telepathically, or by hearing his cries. There were even a few times he screamed. But since the whole fiasco with you trying to wake him up the first time and him almost choking you to death, Bucky had kept his distance every time you attempted to comfort him. It was frustrating for you, but you understood.

It’s not like you seeked him out when you had your own nightmares.

 

One night, you were lying awake in bed, unable to sleep, when you heard Bucky twitch awake on the floor adjacent to you. Looking over, you shifted on your side to watch him get up and walk into the kitchen. He grabbed a glass out of the cabinet and held it under the tap for some water. He turned and leaned against the sink, drinking the water down in large gulps. When he was finished, he put the glass in the sink; he rubbed the back of his neck, adjusting the collar of his t-shirt in an uncomfortable fashion, likely due to a cold sweat. He sighed and ran his hand through his hair. He stilled when he found your eyes on him, and slowly lowered his arm.

“Nightmare?” you asked, half-sitting up. He nodded.

“Yeah.”

“New or old?” Bucky sometimes developed memories at night when he was sleeping, so your question was asking whether or not he had seen it before.

“Old,” he replied. He pulled out a chair and sat at the dining table. “JFK.”

You bit your lip as you observed him, toying with an idea. It’s something that you thought of a while ago, but that you hadn’t brought up because you weren’t sure how Bucky would react to it. But looking at him now, seeing how exhausted he was…you decided it was time to suggest it.

“Y’know, if you want, there’s, uh…there’s a way I could help you,” you started, and Bucky rested his elbows on his knees, leaning forward to listen. “Keep away your nightmares,” you clarified. “If you let me.”

His eyebrows knitted together. “You can do that?”

You shifted slightly in bed, moving some of your hair away from your face. A curious nervousness took over you, and you practically had to force yourself to meet his eyes again. “Yeah. Wouldn’t be too difficult.”

He considered it. “I thought you said dreaming was good for memory building,” he said. “Even when they’re nightmares.”

You shook your head. “It’s not worth watching you go through this. We develop your memories during the day; at night you need to sleep, or it’ll drive you insane.”

His head tilted slightly to the side. “How come you haven’t mentioned this before?”

“Well…” you shifted again, “it would involve me being in your head all night. And…” your skin felt very hot all of the sudden, and your eyes avoided him, “the only way that I can do that while I’m unconscious is if I keep physical contact. We’d have to sleep in the same bed together.” Your gaze flicked back to him. He had sat up, considering you, the wheels in his head turning. Your eyes returned down. “And I know that you have a hard time with intimacy, and with me being in your head more than I already need to be. I just didn’t…want to make you feel uncomfortable.”

He was quiet for a moment. “… .But you could stop the nightmares?”

You looked up at him again, a bit surprised. It wasn’t the reaction you were expecting. You nodded.

“Then it’s worth it.”

A hot flush spread throughout your body. For some reason, the idea of Bucky sleeping with you on the small twin mattress that only had so much space was getting a more intense reaction out of you than you thought it would.

It seemed like it was having an effect on him as well. He rubbed the back of his neck. “As long as you’re okay with it, too.”

“Yeah,” you said, your tone one octave higher than you would’ve liked it. You cleared your throat. “Yeah, of course.”

He stood, and you took a moment to observe him. As always, he wore a soft t-shirt and pajama pants to bed (the pajama pants which you had bought for him, after being sick of watching him go to bed in jeans every night). Compared to him you felt…extremely under-dressed, what with your  _very_  short sleep shorts and tight tank top that didn’t completely cover all of your stomach.

Bucky padded over to where your beds were. “So, do you want to sleep on the mattress or the floor?” he asked, and you could hear the joking tone in his voice.

“Mattress,” you replied anyway, and you shifted yourself and your pillow to one side as he grabbed his and put it next to yours. He lifted the covers and slowly slipped under.

It’s not a secret that Bucky was a big guy. Six feet tall and wide with muscle, the bed became very small with him in it with you. There wasn’t any room left to go anywhere.

Carefully, you rested your hand on the place where his neck and the back of his head met. “Is this okay?” you asked, wanting to be sure. He swallowed, his eyes flicking down over you and your proximity to him.

“Yeah,” he breathed, his voice barely a whisper.

“Close your eyes,” you told him. You were close enough to feel his breath on your face. He blinked a couple of times before keeping them shut.

You waited for his breathing to steady and match yours, then you closed your own eyes and slipped into his mind.

He seemed to resist you a bit at first; you tried to make the transition as smooth as possible, just leaning on the edges as he lingered in the place between consciousness and unconsciousness. You couldn’t tell how long it took, but at some point he was asleep and so were you, and you dived into his subconscious.

It’s difficult to explain how you could keep away his nightmares while being unconscious yourself. It’s like daydreaming while you’re driving — you don’t have to be 100% focused on what you’re doing when your body does it for you. Through your telepathy, your mind worked on autopilot as you slept, helping Bucky while still being able to dream yourself. Somehow, your mind was able to work out which of his dreams were harmless and which of his memories would become nightmares.

 

* * *

 

It wasn’t like the movies.

The first morning you woke with Bucky in your bed, you weren’t any closer to each other; he didn’t have his arms around you, you didn’t end up accidentally spooning. In fact, the two of you hadn’t moved a single inch, lying stiffly in the exact same positions you had fallen asleep in.

It was strange to wake up with someone else in your bed. It had been a long time since you’d slept with someone (just sleeping or…otherwise). Your last relationship ended a little over a year ago, and even that had only lasted a few months. Being what you were, a mutant with dangerous powers and an even more dangerous future, made it difficult to become close to people. Relationships didn’t last. You broke it off or they did. You’d never actually been in a serious relationship before. And falling in love? You never let yourself get close enough.

Despite not getting any closer during the night, your hand was still on the base of his head, your thumb on the edge of his face. You could feel his stumble under your skin.

He wasn’t awake yet. You found yourself studying his face as he slept, and your face heated when you realized you were staring at his lips.

You were out of the bed in two seconds.

 

The two of you got more comfortable with the whole sleeping in the same bed thing the longer you did it. Weeks passed and you became less stiff and more relaxed as you slept. There was still no accidental spooning, but there  _was_  one morning where the hand that was usually placed on his head had slipped forward, so your arm was around his neck, your faces inches apart. His metal hand had been placed on your hip, in what you thought was probably an attempt to keep his distance.

Suffice it to say, waking up to that had been awkward.

But you moved past it. You continued to work on his memories during the day, and then keep his nightmares away during the night. All in all, you were spending a lot of time in his head. And this was reflected in what happened this morning.

It started out like any other. Bucky was up before you as usual, doing his exercises for a few hours before you woke.

You had had a particularly sleepless night. One nightmare and you were done, unable to get back to sleep. You spent hours listening to Bucky’s breathing, your mind intertwined with his, watching his jumbled, senseless dreams and filtering out anything bad that came along. At some point it lulled you back to unconsciousness, but you didn’t sleep for long before your alarm went off and it was time to get up.

Still half-sleep, you dragged yourself out of bed and padded to the kitchen. You grabbed a mug to make yourself a cup of coffee. Bucky was making breakfast.

You shook out the rest of the coffee grains left in the tin, then tossed it in the trash when it was empty.

_Hey, remind me when I go shopping that we need more coffee._

Bucky stopped what he was doing to turn and stare at you in surprise. You rubbed your eyes as you watched the coffee drip into the pot, then you poured it into your mug. You glanced at him as you reached for the sugar, taking in his expression.

_What?_

You woke up completely as you realized what you had done, covering your mouth with your hand. “Oh, fuck,” you blurted. “Oh, my God, Bucky, I’m sorry, I didn’t—” You closed your eyes for a moment and took a breath. “I didn’t mean to. I… .”

You had projected thoughts into his head. You had spoken to him telepathically instead of verbally. You had been in his head without his permission.

You rubbed your hand over your face. “I grew up with telepaths, we used to talk non-verbally to each other, I-I’ve been spending so much time in your head, during the day and  _hours_  at night, I — it’s not an excuse, but —  _shit_ , I’m sorry.”

Bucky nodded, then went back to making breakfast. “’S’okay.”

“No, it’s not,” you said firmly. “I shouldn’t’ve—”

“Y/N,” he interrupted. “It’s  _okay_.” He shrugged. “I don’t mind so much.”

“You don’t…” You blinked at him. “You don’t mind? You don’t mind what?”

He began scooping out eggs and bacon onto two plates. “I don’t mind you in my head. I can still feel you — feel it, but I’m used to it by now.” He handed you one of the plates of food. “Might be good to work on the non-verbal speaking thing, anyway. You never know when we might be in a situation where we have to use it.”

You took the plate from him, your mouth slightly parted. You weren’t expecting that reaction, especially not when you remembered the way he had reacted the first time you had gone into his mind without his permission. You two had come a long way from him bruising your wrist in that motel room back in America.

“Okay,” you said, nodding. “Yeah. Sure.”

 

* * *

 

A few nights later, you had one of the worst nightmares you’d had in a while. It was a combination of all the horrible things you’d done, all the things that had been done to you, and by the end you were drowning in waves of blood, helplessly watching as a bird of fire burned the sky and the world underneath it.

You woke,  _screaming_ , covering your mouth to muffle the sound and to stifle the sobs that wracked your body. Tears poured from your eyes and your other hand grasped the sheets, trying to hold on to something, anything.

Bucky, who had woken up the moment he heard you scream, was sitting up and giving you a panicked, worried look.

You desperately tried to stop your hiccuping sobs. “I’m sorry,” you managed to say to him. “Please, please go back to sleep.” You breathed through your nose, harsh and choppy. You hugged your arm around your middle, your other hand still over your mouth. “I’m-I’m fine, okay?”

Bucky watched you closely, searching you, as if he was trying to figure out what to do.

“Go back to sleep,” you repeated. “Please.”

But he didn’t. Instead, he wrapped his arms around your shoulders in a tight embrace.

You were stunned for a moment. You had never been this close to him before. You had spent months with him and had never hugged him before. Slowly, your hands fisted into the front of his shirt, holding onto him like a lifeline, and you pressed your face into the crook of his neck. His arms squeezed you closer as you let out a cry, prompting you to continue with your shaking sobs.

Slowly he leaned back onto the bed, gently pulling you with him. His flesh arm moved down to the middle of your back, supporting you against his chest as you laid down together. Your head was tucked under his chin; your tears stained his shirt as your sobs slowed and you sniffled quietly. You closed your eyes. He was warm.

“I got you,” you heard him whisper.

 

Since that night, neither of you kept your distance anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Yes boys it’s the OBLIGATORY BED-SHARING CHAPTER. Introducing some new intimacy into their relationship wink wonk. Also introducing telepathic conversations, which is gonna become a Thing. As always, don’t forget to leave behind your thoughts!!


	16. Part 2 - Chapter Sixteen: Teach Me Something You Shouldn't // I'll Tell You Something I Shouldn't

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky tries to teach you self-defense.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So um this was way more angsty than it was supposed to be?? I don’t know what to say?? Aaaaaa???

Getting up the next morning was more difficult than he thought it would be. **  
**

She was practically wrapped around him, her arms around his waist, her head on his chest. Even her legs were inter-tangled with his.

Despite this,  _physically_  getting up wasn’t the problem (granted, it was a bit harder for Bucky not to wake her up when they were so intertwined). The problem was he didn’t realize just  _how much_  he missed the feel of intimacy until she was laying on top of him, soft and warm and  _real_. He was so touch-starved that he remembered the first time they slept in the same bed together, her hand on his head, he felt like he was going to spontaneously combust. But this?

He didn’t want to leave her. And the realization of that terrified him.

Eventually, he did have to get up to start his morning routine. He did his best not to move her, and by some miracle she didn’t wake up. Instead, she curled into the space he left, as if she was trying to conserve the leftover warmth.

 

Nothing changed between them when she got up a few hours later (although practically everything was different now). He made her breakfast and they talked. The only thing out of place was the small, “Thank you,” she whispered to him when there was a lull in the conversation. He didn’t need to ask what she was talking about.

“You’ve been doing the same thing for me,” he said simply, and that was the end of that.

God, he hoped that wasn’t the end of that.

He didn’t want to give up his newfound craving for intimacy — which made him feel guilty and selfish. He wasn’t sure what her feelings were on the matter but the last thing he wanted to do was make her feel uncomfortable. And he felt like if he brought it up he’d do exactly that.

So he didn’t. Him and Y/N went about their daily routine of memory building (no new memories today, unfortunately), and when night came, he sat in bed writing in his notebook, waiting for her to finish her nighttime routine.

 _Fuck_.

Bucky looked up from his notebook in surprise. The voice that spoke inside his head was not his own.

_Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. Just ask him. It’s not that big of a deal._

He stuck his pen in his journal and put it on the ground next to the mattress, his eyes on the door of the bathroom, where Y/N was currently residing.

She was projecting thoughts into his head again; but from the content he was hearing it seemed like she didn’t even realize she was doing it.

_Oh, yeah? What are you going to say? ‘I need you to hold me like you did last night because I don’t think I can sleep without it?’ Yeah. Yeah, that won’t freak him out. Perfect, Y/N._

Bucky blinked a couple of times, surprised. She…she  _wanted_  him to hold her. She wanted him to hold her like he wanted to hold her. He crossed his arms, his skin hot. Hearing her thoughts like this…it felt like a complete invasion of her privacy. Craving her closeness felt invasive enough already.

But wasn’t she currently having the same internal conflict?

Y/N came out of the bathroom and his thought-process ceased momentarily. She padded over to the bed, lifted the covers, and slipped underneath. But, instead of laying down, she paused, biting her bottom lip. She moved her hair away from her face and looked at him.

“Hey…do you mind if—”

He relieved her from finishing her sentence by putting his arm around her waist and pulling her to him. Her eyes went wide and her mouth parted as she looked at him.

“Is this okay?” he asked her, his voice low. She blinked a few times before nodding and laying down next to him; she rested her head on his chest and put her hand on his collarbone where his shirt didn’t cover his skin. Her hand was over his heart. He hoped she couldn’t feel it pounding.

 

(Your own heart was beating erratically and you could barely remember how to breathe properly.)

 

Bucky suddenly remembered the reason he took such initiative and felt an obligation to tell her why. “You were, uh, projecting your internal monologue, before,” he said slowly. He could feel her head shift on his chest.

“ _Shit_ ,” she breathed. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

“I know. It’s okay.”

The silence that followed felt thick; he was starting to wonder if he should have kept his mouth shut when she said—

“To be honest, I’ve been starting to…I’m starting to have a hard time telling the difference anymore.” Her voice was very small.

His eyebrows knitted together. “The difference between what?”

“My mind and yours,” she confessed quietly. “The space between…it’s blurry now. I’ve been spending so much time in your head…it’s starting to feel like my own.”

He didn’t know what to say to that. She swallowed.

“Jesus, I can’t even imagine what you must feel about this. I’m spending all this time in your head already and now I’m telling you that I can’t tell the difference between your mind and mine anymore?” She lifted his arm and shimmed to the edge of the mattress and out of his grasp, putting her feet on the floor and her head in her hands. “That’s so unbelievably invasive, I… .” She trailed off, instead taking a breath. “How do you do this? How do you deal with all of this?”

He sat up. “How do  _you_  deal with all of this?”

She turned back around to face him, her eyebrows knitted together.

“I mean,” he continued, “you’re the one who’s having a hard time telling the difference between your mind and mine. Doesn’t that scare you?”

She glanced down. “Of course it does, but this isn’t about me—”

“Of course it is,” he interrupted in a small voice. “You’re not the only one who feels guilty about things they can’t control.” She looked back up at him and her eyes searched his. He hesitated for a moment. “I liked…being close to you. Like last night. And I thought that that made me selfish.”

“Human beings need intimacy. You haven’t had that in seventy years, I would never blame you for feeling that way.”

“ _Exactly_ ,” he said. “So why won’t you believe that I don’t blame you for being in my head? If anything, it’s my fault; you wouldn’t be in my head this much if it wasn’t for me and my nightmares.”

She shook her head. “It is  _not_  your fault, Bucky.”

“Okay,” he said, as if a point had been made. “So don’t worry about it.”

She looked like she wanted to say something else, but her mouth just hung open, like she wasn’t sure where to go from there. Eventually, she crawled back under the covers. So did he.

She still seemed upset, keeping her distance with him (as much as she could in that tiny bed). Bucky put his elbow on his pillow, resting his head in his hand.

“… .I like having you in my head,” he confessed, his eyes flicking down. “It makes me feel less alone.”

When he looked back at her, she seemed surprised by his words. Something like relief flitted through her, and she exhaled.

Then she inched closer to him, tucking her head under his chin and slowly wrapping her arms around his waist. He moved his arm from where it was resting on his pillow and put it around her shoulders.

 _You make me feel less alone, too,_  her mind whispered to his, and it was the last thing he remembered before falling asleep.

 

* * *

 

“Let me teach you how to fight.”

“What?”

Bucky thought of it one morning after they had finished breakfast, when Y/N was drinking her coffee. She stared at him in disbelief.

“Or at least let me teach you how to defend yourself,” he clarified. He was surprised he hadn’t thought about it sooner, especially with what happened with Hydra on the camping trip.

She let out a nervous laugh, which was more of a short burst of air. “No.”

He leaned forward in his seat, his eyes narrowing. “Why not?”

She held his gaze. “You know why not.”

“What if something happened?” he asked her. “What if someone got to you?”

“Good thing I have my knight in shining metal  _arm_  to come rescue me,” she said with a barely-withheld smile, pointing at his appendage for emphasis.

As adorable as her reaction to her own joke was, he managed to keep a straight face. “What if I can’t get to you? What if I’m not there? What are you going to do then?”

“Bucky,” she said as she got up to put her mug in the sink, “I can’t. It goes against what I believe in.”

“Which is what? Not protecting yourself?”

She rinsed her mug, then turned back around to face him. “I can’t incite violence, Bucky, you know that.”

“What if someone incites violence on you first?”

 _Doesn’t. Matter._  The words were non-verbal, something she sometimes did when she wanted to emphasize a point.

Bucky stood from his chair and walked over to where she was leaning. There was a time where he would have been afraid he was intimidating her; there was a time where he was afraid that she would see him as the Winter Soldier, scary and threatening. But now he knew her, and he knew that towering over her in the way that he was doing now had no effect as she stared him down, unflinching.

“I don’t know what I’d do if something happened to you,” he said, his voice low. “And if Hydra got you…” he touched her wrist, the gesture they agreed upon to signal he wanted to speak non-verbally to her,  _your solution can’t just be to kill yourself._

You blinked at him as you read his mind, swallowing harshly. You finally had to break your gaze from his, looking down and at his shoes (he was very close to you). You exhaled, moving your eyes from the ground but still not looking at him. You closed your eyes, bit your lip, then finally found his steel-blues again, looking up at him through your lashes. “Fine. I’ll let you teach me self-defense.”

He nodded, looking relieved. “Good.”

You told him he could teach you. But that didn’t mean you would ever use it.

Bucky left you to go to the middle of the room, then slid off his shirt and gestured for you to come over.

“What,  _now_?” you asked, and you mentally chastised yourself for the small thrill seeing him half naked sent through you.

_Stop. I need you to stop. I need you to chill._

Bucky cleared his throat and he tapped his temple. “Y/N, turn off your inner monologue.”

Heat rose to your cheeks and you prayed he didn’t hear anything he shouldn’t have. “Sorry.” You walked over to where you kept your clothes and pulled out your sports bra and stretchy pants. “Just give me a sec.”

About a minute later, you came out of the bathroom in more appropriate attire for learning self-defense.

Bucky’s jaw clenched as he gave you a once-over, and your skin felt hot and prickly all of the sudden.

“Okay, so where do we start?” you asked, your voice an octave higher than usual.

He held up his flesh hand, palm open. “Hit me.”

You gave him an unsure look.

The look he gave you was bordering on amused. “You’re not going to hurt me. Hit my hand.”

You rolled your eyes, then focused on his open palm, throwing your body at an attempt at a punch toward him. As soon as your fist connected with his hand he caught it, using the momentum to pull you against him in a tight hold.

You could feel his breath on the back of your neck. “If something like this happens,” he said into your ear, and a tingling sensation shot through you, “there are a few ways you can get out of it. Heel to foot, elbow to the solar plexus — here—” He pressed the fingers of his metal hand to the middle of your body, just under the bottom edge of your sports bra, below your breast bone.

You were having a hard time breathing. Damn him.

“—then knee to groin. Got it?”

You took a breath. “Yeah.”

_Bastard._

“Are you going to insult me or are you going to try it?” he asked, and you had to close your mind off to him again, cursing yourself as you did so.

The two of you did a few slow-motion run-throughs of the technique he taught you before you moved on to something else (thank God). He taught you the proper way to punch; he taught you a few simple blocks and different hits.

You worked on self-defense for hours. Finally, Bucky wanted to do a random run-through to test what he had taught you.

You looked up at him from where you were standing with your hands on your knees, feeling sweaty and breathing harder than usual. “Can’t we stop for the day?”

He shook his head. “Show me what you got.”

You sighed and stood straight. You had had enough of this. When Bucky went to grab you, you surprised him by turning and vaulting him over your shoulder and onto the ground, something he hadn’t taught you. He landed on his back and you placed your foot on his chest.

Stunned, he blinked up at you, looking like the wind got knocked out of him.

You shrugged, still holding his arm that you used to throw him down. “My parents were rich assholes who wanted to protect their investment. Of course I was taught self-defense.” Although, you knew it wouldn’t have worked so well if you hadn’t had the element of surprise on your back. Something like that would never work on a trained professional. But it made your point well enough.

He used the fact that you were still holding his arm to grab your hand and pull you down, flipping you in the process so you were underneath him; he used his metal hand to pin your arms above your head.

“You knew self-defense this whole time?” he asked, a little bit out of breath. You turned your head, avoiding his eyes. You could feel his breath on your face. You turned your gaze back to him and nodded. “Then why haven’t you been using it?”

“You know I can’t do that,” you whispered. His jaw clenched.

“Promise me you’ll use it in the future,” he said, his blue eyes searching yours.

“Bucky… .”

He tapped your wrist twice.

 

_Promise me._

His eyes were pleading with you; his mind begged with you in a way that that verbal words couldn’t.

You swallowed and took a deep breath. “I promise.”

 

You wished to God you didn’t have to lie to him.

But you did.

 

Bucky lingered on top of her for longer than he probably should have, taking a moment to listen to the sound of her breathing mixed with his own. Then he finally got up, holding out his hand for her; she took it and he pulled her to her feet.

“I’m getting alcohol,” she said, heading to the kitchen. “You want alcohol?” She looked over her shoulder at him.

He considered it, then nodded. She pulled out a bottle from the back of one of the cabinets, and set it on the table with two glasses. She poured each of them a shot, sitting and swallowing it down. Bucky sat next to her, downing his own.

This went on for a little bit.

Bucky, being the Winter Soldier and having a superhuman high metabolism, couldn’t get drunk. But despite being part of the species known as  _homo superior_ , this same high metabolism did not apply to Y/N.

“Liss’n to me,” she began, her voice slurring, “y’know what your problem is? Y’ jus’ need t’ relax. We all jus’ need t’ relaaaaaaaaaaaaax.” She giggled. Then she frowned at him. “Why aren’t you drunk? Is this alcohol not working?” She grabbed the bottle and stared at it, blinking. “Words’are fuzzy.”

He gently took the bottle from her hands. “I can’t get drunk, remember?” he reminded her as he got up and put the bottle away.

“Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, tha’s right. Wow, tha’ suuuuuuuuucks, man.”

He nodded, watching her closely in case she decided to do something stupid. Like try to stand.

She leaned back in her seat, staring right back at him. “You have such pretty eyes,” she said, her head resting on her palm.

He blinked at her a few times. “Thanks.”

“‘Nd put a shirt on, ‘ts distracting.”

He didn’t know whether to be amused or embarrassed by her words, but either way he got up and grabbed his shirt, putting it on before sitting back down. (His face was a bit warmer than before.)

She was leaning on the table, drumming her fingers on the surface when he got back. Her eyes seemed to catch on the orange ink that adorned her skin. “Hey, you wanna know what my tattoo means?”

Bucky stilled. If she didn’t have his full attention before, she certainly had it now. He remembered the first time he asked her about it, about her tattoo, and her reaction.

 

_“Your tattoo. The fire-bird. What’s it for?”_

_“Let me make this very clear. If you want my help, then you can’t ask me about my tattoo.”_

_“What?”_

_“You ask any more questions, and I walk out that door, right now, and I’m not taking you with me. Do you understand?”_

Her reaction was so extreme, so finite.

 

_“What could be so dangerous about a tattoo?”_

Maybe he was about to find out. He leaned forward in his seat, waiting patiently for her to continue. She drank the rest of the liquid in her glass in one gulp. She giggled. “Is’a—” She giggled some more. “It’s a death sentence.”

Bucky’s blood chilled as he listened to her continued giggles, not understanding her meaning, but suddenly not wanting to understand her meaning. He swallowed, then took a drink of the alcohol in his own glass, as if it could help. “Well,” he said, “you’re not dead yet.”

She laughed at that. Not giggled,  _laughed_. For some reason, what he said might as well have been the funniest thing anyone had ever said in the history of the world.

“I never—” she attempted to get out words in between her bouts of laughter, “I never said— I never  _said_ —” she tried to catch her breath, “I never said it was  _my_  death sentence.”

She stopped laughing.

Bucky’s jaw clenched as her demeanor flipped entirely. Suddenly, it looked like she was having a hard time breathing, her breaths coming out in short bursts. Tears filled her eyes and she covered her mouth.

He got up swiftly and took the empty glass from her hand, putting it on the table.  Then he hooked his arm around her waist and pulled her to her feet, supporting her as he led her to bed, and laid her down.

“Something really bad’s gonna happen, Bucky,” she whispered through her tears. “And it’s gonna be my fault.”

He crouched down next to her. “What do you mean?” he asked softly. She took a couple of deep breaths, opened her mouth—

Then she stood abruptly and stumbled to the bathroom. He could hear her retching from where he was.

He exhaled slowly, then made his way over to her so he could hold her hair back.

When she was done retching, she rested her cheek on the toilet seat and stared up at him.

“Hey Bucky?”

“Yeah?”

“Knight in shining metal  _arm_.” She giggled her way through the entire sentence, and somehow, he was able to crack a smile, too.

 

(The next morning, she didn’t talk about what she had said the night before.)

 

(Neither did he.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I can’t stop stupidly laughing over knight in shining metal arm


	17. Part 2 - Chapter Seventeen: Christmas Special

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You and Bucky celebrate Christmas.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No. We don’t need one.”

“ _How could you say that?_ ”

“We don’t have room!”

“Alright,  _Scrooge_ ,” you emphasized the nickname in Bucky’s direction, crossing your arms, “I’ll give you a deal. You can stay here and I’ll go out and bring back  _the biggest_  Christmas tree you’ve ever seen in your goddamn life —  _or_  you can help me bring back a small tree that’ll fit better in the apartment.”

Bucky raised his eyebrows at you. “You’re going to bring back the biggest Christmas tree I’ve ever seen in my goddamn life  _by yourself_? How?”

You gave him a defiant look. “Determination.” Although he did have a point and you had no idea how you were going to do it if he said no.

Bucky sighed through his nose, his eyes trailing over the apartment. He wetted his lips then looked back at you. He stood.

He gestured to the door. A huge smile spread across your face and you clapped your hands together excitedly, practically bouncing. The corners of Bucky’s mouth pulled up slightly as he followed you out.

 

* * *

 

Bucky ended up caving on a medium-sized tree. It wasn’t too big but it definitely took up a decent amount of space at the side of the room. He would’ve fought harder on it, but seeing her face…how she pleaded for it, her eyes wide and blinking,  _begging_  him to let her take “the prettiest tree at the market — it’s my favourite one, Bucky,  _please_ , c’mon it’s  _Christmas_ ” — he just couldn’t have said no. It meant so much to her to be celebrating Christmas, and honestly, with everything they’d be through and the fact that they were  _here_  and not in America, it was the least he could do for her.

She told him to take the tree back to the apartment without her. Said she had to “run some errands” or something like that. Bucky knew she was acting suspicious but let her go anyway. By the time he managed to lug the tree back, she was sitting at the table, reading,  _definitely_  not acting like she was up to something.

“Finish your errands?” he asked as he set up the tree.

She didn’t look up from her book. “Yep.”

“What did you get?”

“Stuff.”

“Stuff?”

“Yeah. Stuff.” Her eyes were still on her book but they weren’t moving, weren’t reading the words below. Yeah. She was definitely up to something.

 

As it turns out, the “stuff” she had gotten were Christmas decorations.

When he got back from his run at 8:00am that morning, the apartment was completely transformed. There were decorations everywhere — red and green and silver adorning the walls, tiny figurines on the table and countertop and window sill, boxes of chocolate and candy canes not yet opened sitting under the cabinets. The only thing left bare was the tree, although a box rested next to it.

Y/N, wearing a red Santa Claus hat, grinned at him as he entered, her arms full of Christmas lights that she was attempting to untangle. He blinked at her, trying to process what he had just walked in to.

He looked around, then back at her. “Where did you get the money to pay for all of this?”

She fiddled with the lights in her hands, shifting her weight to the other foot. “The Hellfire Club has a bank account in Romania. It was created to be untraceable, so don’t worry too much about it. My parents owe me, anyway.” She swiped her nails over her wrist, over her tattoo. “I just thought…It’s our first Christmas together, and, well — well it’s  _Christmas_. Do you like it?”

She was looking at him so expectantly… .He couldn’t help but smile. “Yeah. I like it.”

Her own smile only widened, and she strolled over to the tree. “I thought we could decorate it together. Oh! Hang on!” She excitedly crossed the apartment to the radio; she put a disc in and pressed play.

 _“~I don’t want a lot for Christmas, there is just one thing I need, and IIIII~”_  the radio sang the Christmas tune. Y/N practically  _beamed_  happiness. It was infectious.

“Just let me take a shower first, okay? Then we can decorate the tree.”

She nodded furiously, and he headed to the bathroom as  _All I Want For Christmas Is You_ continued on in the background.

 

He had forgotten to bring a clean shirt into the bathroom with him, so he walked out post-shower clad in just his jeans, using his towel to dry his hair.  _Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree_ played through the apartment; Y/N was arranging some Christmas lights on the wall, a candy cane hanging out of her mouth as she bopped along to the rhythm.

“~Everyone dancin’ merrily in a new old happy—” she turned and stopped singing as her eyes found him, her candy cane held in hand, mouth parting. Her line of sight was definitely not on his face.

He felt very self-conscious suddenly, his jaw clenching. He shouldn’t have come out without a shirt — shouldn’t have caught her off guard with what he knew were the gruesome scars embedded in the flesh around his metal arm.

She blinked and put the candy cane back in her mouth, moving her eyes and attention away from him as she went over to one of the boxes of Christmas stuff.

As soon as her eyes left him, Bucky strode over to where he kept his clothes and pulled on a shirt. When he looked back, Y/N had taken something out of the box and was walking over to him. Her eyes flicked down briefly to his now fabric-covered chest before sticking something on his head.

It was a hairband of some kind, a semi-circle spanning over the top of his head from ear-to-ear. It  _jingled_  when he moved.

“What is this?” he asked, his eyes looking up even though he knew he wouldn’t be able to see it.

Her hands were clasped together behind her back, a barely suppressed grin on her face that was equal parts mischievous and adorable. “Antlers,” she answered in a tone bordering on sing-song-y. She searched his eyes as if she was waiting to see if he would protest against them.

Instead he sighed. “Are we going to decorate this tree or what?”

He swore to God that in that moment her eyes  _sparkled_.

And so they began decorating the tree with the decorations that she had bought, things like pretty spheres and bells and tinsel and ribbons and figures like Santa or snowmen, all the while listening to the Christmas CD that Y/N had put on. She mouthed along to the words, knowing each song while Bucky had never heard any of them. His memories of Christmases in the ‘40s were few, but any Christmas songs he did remember resembled none of these.

_“~I put a tack on teacher’s chair; somebody snitched on me. I tied a knot in Sarah’s hair; somebody snitched on me. I did a dance on Grandma’s plants; climbed a tree and tore my pants; I filled that sugar bowl with ants; and somebody snitched on me. I’m gettin’ nuttin’ for Christmas; Mommy and Daddy are mad. I’m gettin’ nuttin’ for Christmas; ‘cause I ain’t been nuttin’ but bad~”_

“What  _is_  this song?” Bucky asked after listening for a while, the lyrics baffling him. Y/N, who had been mouthing the words and bopping to the song thus far, gave him a sheepish look.

“ _Nuttin’ for Christmas_? Smash Mouth?”

“Am I supposed to know what those words mean?”

“You don’t—?” She seemed to remember his lack of knowledge when it came to pop culture, and said, “Okay, tomorrow I’m making you watch  _Shrek_.” He gave her an increasingly confused look, but she continued on anyway. “This CD is  _Another Rosie Christmas_. My parents used to play it when we would decorate the tree. Despite what I’ve said before…my childhood wasn’t really all that bad. It was nice, actually. I have a lot of great memories. Listening to this CD around Christmas was one of them. All the bad stuff, that came…later.” She paused, in thought, then took a breath. “I’m surprised I actually managed to find it. The CD. I’m glad I did, though.” She gave him a wicked smile. “You can hear all of the classics on this one.”

“‘Nutting for Christmas’ is a classic?”

She snorted. “‘ _Nuttin’_ ’, not nutting. Like nothing? Getting nothing for Christmas?” She waved her hand in the air. “Nevermind. Pass me those candy canes, would you?”

 

* * *

 

Christmas Eve you had turned off the overhead lights and let the strings of Christmas bulbs glow, illuminating the apartment in soft light. The two of you sat at the dining table, sipping glasses of spiked eggnog. There was a fuzziness in your head and a warmth in your chest.

“Every year I’d go to my parents’ ridiculously extravagant Christmas Eve party,” you were telling him. “Fancy food, fancy people, fancy party favours.”

“You wish you were there now?” Bucky asked you casually, but there was something prying underneath. His blue eyes, dark in the softly-lit room, searched yours.

You shook your head. “No. I don’t. Those parties always made me feel…lonely, I guess.”  _It’s hard to explain_ , you whispered non-verbally.

He nodded. “You don’t have to. I get it.”

You laughed bitterly to yourself, looking down into your glass. “Look at me. Here I am complaining about the horrors of being forced to attend fancy parties when you haven’t celebrated Christmas in seventy years.” You took a swig of your eggnog, the alcohol burning your throat a bit more than you had anticipated.

“You don’t have to do that, you know.”

You looked up at him, confusion crossing your features. “Do what?”

“Act like your feelings don’t matter just because my circumstances might have been worse,” he said. “You do it a lot.”

Something like shame prickled under your skin. “You were a slave to Hydra for seventy years. You lost your memories. You lost your  _arm_.”

He shook his head. “It’s not a contest.”

Your eyes flicked back to his. “I just…don’t want you to think that I feel like anything you went through is trivial.”

His eyebrows furrowed together and he leaned forward. “Do  _you_  think that  _I_  feel like anything  _you_  went through is trivial?”

 

_“I know you live inside your own little pacifistic bubble, so let me explain something to you._

_“_ We _, are not the same.”_

You felt very, very small in that moment. Your voice was barely a whisper; you couldn’t look at him. “… .Maybe.”

You felt his hand, his flesh hand, grasp your wrist gently. Your head tilted slightly, tuning in to his thoughts.

_I’m sorry I’m so shit at this._

You glanced at him. “At what?”

You watched his Adam’s apple bob up and down as he swallowed.

_Being a friend._

Your mouth parted. You blinked at him a couple of times.

 _Being_ your _friend_ , he added.

You wrapped your hand around his wrist.  _You know when you asked me if I wished I was there now, at my parents’ Christmas party, and I said no…I didn’t just mean the stupid fancy extravaganza. I meant America, too. I meant home in general. I’ve never had someone to spend Christmas Eve with, and…even though we’re in this…shitty situation, for once I’m not by myself._  “And I’ve got pretty Christmas lights and strong eggnog and…a friend. And that’s all I need.”

“I don’t think any of what you went through is trivial,” he whispered, squeezing your wrist.

Tears filled your eyes but you didn’t let them fall. You gave him a watery smile. “Thank you.”

 

* * *

 

You felt Bucky trying to untangle himself from you early the next morning. You hung onto his form, tightening your arms around his middle. “Where do you think you’re going?” you asked him sleepily, your eyes still closed.

“I—”

“No,” you interrupted him. “It’s Christmas. You sleep in on Christmas.”

“Y/N—”

“Christmas,” you repeated. “Sleep.” You could feel him start to hesitate, and you moved your arms around his neck, shifting your body so you were completely on top of him.

_Get up. I dare you._

You heard him sigh and felt his hands rest on your back; your head was tucked under his chin.

 

Bucky didn’t go back to sleep; his routine wouldn’t allow for that. Instead he listened to her breathing, felt her chest rise and fall, listened to her incoherent mumbling and felt the vibrations through his body.

She shifted and her lips brushed his neck. He felt like he was going to combust.

 

Your eyes blinked slowly as you woke up. The first thing you noticed was the clear lack of another person in your bed — the second thing you noticed was the sweet smell of pancakes.

“Merry Christmas,” Bucky said over his shoulder to you as he watched you sit up. You rubbed the sleep from your eyes and stood. A bubbling feeling of something warm (…happiness?) sprung up in your chest as you walked over.

“Merry Christmas,” you said back, your eyes on the plate of pancakes next to the stove. Bucky followed your gaze and handed you the platter with a small smile. You couldn’t stop the wide smile spreading across your face as you took it from him gratefully and sat down at the table.

It didn’t take Bucky long to make a couple more pancakes to add to his own plate. He sat across from you as you took your first bite.

“There are blueberries in here,” you said, pleasantly surprised.

“You like it?”

You nodded enthusiastically and watched him smile shyly to himself. You gobbled up a couple of pancakes before excitedly leaving the table and grabbing something from the closet. You hid it (poorly) behind your back as you faced Bucky again.

“Now I know we didn’t say anything about getting each other gifts, but…” you walked closer to him and placed the wrapped package on his lap, “here.”

He blinked at the package, then looked up at you. His eyes seemed especially blue today. “You got me a gift?”

“Yeah,” you said, shrugging. “It’s Christmas.” You sat in the chair next to him and clasped your hands together, bringing them to your chest. “Open it!”

He ripped into the paper, then opened the box. He paused for a moment, then lifted up the blue winter jacket.

“I saw it at the market a couple of weeks ago, and I thought it looked just like the one you used to wear in the ‘40s. Or at least it looks like the one they have in the Smithsonian.” You played with your fingers nervously as you watched him. His hands tightened around the fabric.

“I remember that jacket,” he murmured.

 

A memory briefly flitted through Bucky’s mind.

 

_“Remember when I made you ride the Cyclone on Coney Island?”_

_“Yeah, and I threw up.”_

_“This isn’t payback, is it?”_

_“Now why would I do that?”_

 

A crooked smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. “I love it. Thank you.”

 

Your heart felt like it skipped a beat at his smile, and you beamed at him. “Merry Christmas, Bucky.”

He put the jacket back in the box and gently set it down on the floor. “Hang on just a second.” You watched him stand up and grab something from where he kept his clothes. It was a small box, nothing fancy; he placed it in front of you on the table.

You gaped at him.

“You didn’t think I wouldn’t get you anything, did you?” he said, although he rubbed the back of his neck in a nervous fashion not unlike how you were acting just moments before.

You smiled shyly at him, and opened the box. You exhaled, your heart fluttering.

It was a necklace. It was made of string — but the star was made of metal. You held the piece in your hand, the metal cold and solid, the star not too big and not too little. It was simple but it was  _beautiful_.

“Bucky…” you started, not knowing what to say, “Where did you get this?”

“I made it.” He shifted in his seat at your wide eyes in response to his words. “It’s not a big deal.”

“You made it,” you repeated, awe in your voice.

“It was really easy to do, it’s just a star, it’s pretty simple.”

“You made me something.”

“… .Yeah.”

You looked back down at the necklace, then gingerly put it around your neck. You fingered the metal of the star for a second, then stood and wrapped your arms around Bucky’s shoulders.

Gently, a bit hesitant, he hugged you back.

“Merry Christmas, Y/N.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: By the way, when Bucky thinks that you’re staring at his scars you’re actually checking him out because you’re Thirsty for This Boi


	18. Part 2 - Chapter Eighteen: Domesticity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three short scenes of every day life: You cut Bucky’s hair, you get sick, you celebrate Bucky’s birthday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, for those who weren’t aware, the hiatus of this story was because my keyboard was broken! But now it’s fixed!!! This means there will hopefully be more regular updates! Thanks for being patient with me!

__

_I_ _. Haircut_

Bucky was eating lunch when he noticed her staring at him, her jaw chewing thoughtfully. He swallowed and looked back, although she wasn’t meeting his eyes, her attention on something else.

“What?” he asked.

She set her sandwich down and brushed the crumbs off of her hands. “Can I cut your hair?”

Bucky’s eyebrows raised, surprised. “What?”

“Nothing too drastic — I just thought I’d trim it,” she replied, resting her chin into her hand. He felt a little hot under her gaze. _You probably haven’t had a decent haircut in seventy years_ , her voice rang within his head.

Whether or not she meant to project that thought into his mind, she did have a point. “Do you even know how to cut hair?”

“How hard could it be?”

He sighed and hesitated for a moment. “…Okay.”

Her eyes lit up. “Really?”

He scratched the back of his head and nodded. Y/N stuffed the rest of her sandwich in her mouth and stood up, walking past him. He turned in his chair and watched her grab a towel from the closet. “What, now?”

She swallowed her food. “Sorry, did you want to finish your lunch first?”

He fought down an amused smile and shook his head. Y/N grabbed a pair of scissors. She walked back over to him and he pushed his chair away from the table to give Y/N some more room. She set the towel around his shoulders.

Y/N stood behind him and clicked the scissors a couple times. “Okay, ready?”

“Yeah.”

He heard snipping as she began cutting the ends of his hair; he watched as dark strands floated down to the floor in bunches.

She ran her hand through his hair.

She did it again.

It felt…nice.

As promised, she had only cut off a little bit — just enough to clean it up. When she was done, she moved so she was in front of him and inspected the ends to make sure they were even.

He took this moment to study her face: pensive, concentrating, serious. The slope of her jaw, her cheeks, her eyebrows. The shape of her mouth; the colour of her eyes. They squinted at him.

“Hang on, can I just—?” She finished the sentence by placing her hands on his shoulders and sitting on his lap.

He froze in his surprise. He wasn’t even sure if he was breathing anymore.

Y/N ran the tips of her fingers over his scalp, then down his hair to check the length. He resisted the urge to put his hands on her hips.

He felt like he was going to burst into flames.

Y/N reached over and grabbed the scissors again, cutting off just a little bit more where it seemed she found it uneven. She put the scissors back on the table and ran her hands through his hair again.

“Okay,” she said as her hands rested on the line of his jaw, “I think it’s good now.” Her eyes finally met his, and she seemed to realize for the first time their proximity as she blinked at him, lips parting slightly. She stood. She took a step away.

“So, do you want to see what it looks like?” Her voice was an octave higher.

He cleared his throat and nodded, standing up and heading to the bathroom to look in the mirror. He ran his hand through his newly trimmed hair. He had to admit, she did a good job.

“Well?” he heard her call. He stepped out of the room.

“Better. Thank you.”

 

* * *

 

 

_II. Sick_

It was inevitable that you were going to get sick. Colds and the flu, as inconvenient as they were, were just a part of life. In fact, you had been sick a few times before; your immune system was weaker abroad where there was different bacteria and germs. It had never been too unbearable. A sore throat here, a little bit of delirium there. If Bucky had noticed, he didn’t say anything; it was before the two of you really talked.

But this time your head was cotton; your skin was fire; you were ice. When you woke your throat was broken glass, and it hurt to swallow.

You stumbled out of bed and to the kitchen with the blanket around your shoulders. You heard the _click_ of the bathroom door shutting as you sat down, and a voice that accompanied the padding sound of bare footsteps.

“Have you eaten breakfast yet?” Bucky asked casually as he dried his hair and joined you at the table.

You hummed in response. “Not hungry.”

His expression changed as he got a better look at you — you with your blanket and shivering and what was most likely a dreary complexion. “Are you okay?”

“It’s just a little cold,” you said. “I’m fine. So, do you want to start our session right now or do you want to eat something first?” Your sentence was concluded with a weak-sounding cough.

“You’re sick.”

“I’m _fine_.”

“You’re shivering.” Bucky stood and walked over to where you were sitting.

“I’ve handled much worse,” you said stubbornly. He put a hand on your forehead, and his lips pulled into a tight line.

“You’re burning up.” His hand moved from your forehead to cradle your cheek, and you closed your eyes, leaning into his touch. You felt his thumb absently stroke your hot skin before it disappeared. You opened your eyes to find him looking through cabinets.

“What are you doing?” you asked blearily.

He finally stood when he seemed to find what he was looking for, and placed a box with a red cross on the top down on the table.

“Open your mouth.”

“I told you, I’m fi—” Your words were cut off as Bucky shoved a thermometer under your tongue. He took it out when it beeped, but not before an attempt was made to give him the most scathing look you could muster.

(It wasn’t that scathing. You were sick.)

“You have a fever,” he said, and put the thermometer back in the first-aid box. “Not high enough that you need to see a doctor, but high enough that you should be resting.”

You shook your head. “I can still work on your memories, it’s not like I’ll be doing anything physical.”

Bucky handed you some aspirin and a cup of water. You didn’t even process him get it. “You’re sick,” he said as you popped the pills into your mouth and drank, “meaning you’re probably delirious and can’t think straight.” He kneeled so he could meet you at eye-level. “Meaning no memory-building for today.”

A shiver ran through you and you pulled the blanket tighter around your body as you considered what he was saying. Sleep _did_ sound really nice right about now. You sighed and nodded.

You padded your way back to the mattress and flopped down onto it. Your absence left it cold; your body vibrated and you squeezed your eyes shut, trying to rest despite the uncomfortable feeling.

You heard Bucky walk over to the bed and you opened your eyes at him, watching him sit next to the mattress.

“Sit up for a second,” he told you.

You didn’t want to sit up. Sitting up was bad. Sitting up was cold.

“I know you’re cold, I’m trying to help with that,” he responded.

Oops. Projecting thoughts again.

Against your own muddled judgement, you sat up, the blanket twisted around your waist. You had forgotten you were wearing your clothes; you had fallen asleep in them the night before. You couldn’t remember the reason why.

“Do you remember the memory about first aid in the army?” he asked you.

 _Vaguely_.

“Extra body heat can help you when you’re cold,” he said slowly.

“I don’t need extra body heat. Extra body heat is my problem, that’s what a fever is.”

“Extra like sharing,” he specified, hooking his hair behind his ear. If you had been thinking more clearly, you might have taken the gesture to be a nervous one. “Sharing body heat.”

You hummed, “Okay,” and leaned into him, resting your head on his shoulder and closing your eyes. You felt his flesh arm habitually wrap around you.

 _Warm_.

He sighed. “Do you remember how sharing body heat works?”

You did. _If I have to take off my clothes_ , you thought to him, _you have to take off your clothes, too._

“…That _is_ how it works.”

You fisted your hand into his shirt and snuggled closer. “Buy me a drink, first.”

He tucked your head under his chin for a moment, then carefully untangled himself from you. Your body shook at the returning lack of warmth. You opened your eyes to find him in the kitchen.

He returned with a glass of water in hand. He offered it wordlessly to you; there was a shadow of amusement on his face.

You took the drink and considered it for a moment. “Thanks.” You set it down next to the bed, in case you needed it later — then you pulled off your shirt, the cold of the air hitting you immediately.

Bucky had seen you in your underwear before and you had seen him in his. At this point, sleeping together in the same bed was practically second nature for you. All of this meant that nothing about this situation made you uncomfortable or uneasy. (Nothing about Bucky made you uncomfortable or uneasy anymore.) The only discomfort came from your illness and the shivering that accompanied that.

You got back under the covers and closed your eyes, curling your knees to your chest in a effort to conserve warmth.

Bucky came back a moment later, sans shirt and pants, and crawled into bed. He wrapped his arms around you; his skin was hot against yours and you let out a sigh of contentment.

But the cold metal of his arm was suspiciously absent. It was replaced instead by something that felt soft and insulated, like…like… .

“You wrapped your metal arm in blankets?” you asked Bucky in a fit of giggles.

“Metal’s cold,” he mumbled as an explanation. “Go to sleep.”

Smiling, you curled further into him and closed your eyes.

 

* * *

 

 

_III. Birthday_

“This is going to sound strange, but I need you to leave the apartment for a couple hours.”

Bucky looked up at Y/N from where he was sitting, marking his place in his journal and closing it. He raised an eyebrow at her. “Why?”

“And you can’t ask why.”

He gave her a look. “Should I be worried?”

“No, of course not!” She walked over and took the journal from him. She put it on the table, then tugged on his hands with her own, prompting him to stand and move toward the door. “Two hours!” she told him before shoving him out and closing the door after him.

He sighed and began his way down the stairs.

 

Bucky came back a couple hours later, as instructed. He had just gotten to their floor when he spotted an elderly woman exiting his apartment and walking toward him.

“[Mrs. Miklos?]” Bucky asked in Romanian. Melita Miklos was their neighbour who lived a couple doors down from them.

She smiled wide when she saw him. “[Hello, Bucky! So good to see you!]”

“[Do you need help with your groceries, Mrs Miklos?]”

She laughed but shook her head. “[Such a good boy. No, no. I was only helping Y/N with something.]”

“[With what?]”  
She chuckled and patted his stomach. “[You should come over for dinner some time. Let me cook for you and Y/N.]”

“[Okay, Mrs. Miklos, we will.]”

She pulled his arm so he would lean over, then patted his cheek before going on her way.

Bucky continued on to the apartment. It was dark when he entered; soft light flickered from the table, illuminating Y/N’s face.

Candles.

On a cake.

“Happy Birthday,” she said as he walked over.

“Birthday?” he repeated as he stopped in front of her, glancing briefly down at the cake.

“March tenth, nineteen-seventeen. You’re ninety-eight today, old man,” she said with an amused smile.

“You didn’t have to do this,” Bucky murmured.

“Of course I did,” she replied sincerely. “I even got Mrs. Miklos to help me. She did…most of it. I’m not the best baker.”

Bucky was at a loss for words. This was one of the kindest things anyone had ever done for him (that he could remember, anyway).

Everything that Y/N had ever done for him was kind.

“I… .Thank you,” he whispered.

“Blow out the candles,” Y/N insisted. She put her hand on his chest and stopped him before he could. “Oh, but make a wish first!”

Bucky looked over at Y/N for a moment. He didn’t even have to think about it.

 

_Let her be okay._

 

He blew out the candles and in the dark of the apartment, Y/N kissed his cheek and spoke softly into his ear, “Happy Birthday, Bucky.”


	19. Part 2 - Chapter Nineteen: Chess Pieces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One-year anniversary. You visit a carnival to celebrate.

Your head rested on Bucky’s back; your arm around his waist. You could feel the rise and fall of his breathing better this way. Usually it helped you sleep, but tonight your mind refused to shut itself off. Bucky wasn’t asleep yet either — you could feel his mind whirring with activity, although it was beginning to dwindle. **  
**

_Bucky_ , you whispered telepathically, the thought quiet and hesitant.

He hummed in response and you could feel the vibration in your chest.

_Are you awake?_

“I am now,” he murmured in a sleep-filled voice.

“Tomorrow marks one year since we’ve been here,” you said aloud, and you had to shift when Bucky turned to face you.

“You’ve been keeping track?” The tone displayed curiosity, and surprise mixed with something you couldn’t place.

 “I kept track so we’d have something to celebrate,” you explained. “A year without being captured. Almost a year since we’ve seen any Hydra agents.”  _One year without being their soldier_ , you added telepathically.

“One year since you’ve been home,” he spoke, his blue eyes dark.

You sighed and rolled onto your back, looking up at the ceiling. “‘Home’ is subjective.”

“Don’t you miss it?”

You thought about his question. “There are some things that I miss, I guess. Sleeping in a bed that’s not just a mattress. Chinese food. But it was never… _home_  to me. I don’t miss it. Where I grew up; New York; Washington… .It’s like I was always looking behind my back, waiting for something bad to happen.”

“And hiding out from Hydra is somehow different?”

“It is different. I have you.”

Bucky blinked at you and you threaded your fingers through his.

“America was so…lonely for me,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “You know I didn’t exactly get along with my family. I could never seem to stay in a relationship or make any close friends. I always felt so detached from everything and everyone else — because I’m a mutant, because I’m…well. But here…I finally feel like…like things can be  _different_. The two of us, we’ve both been through some fucked up shit, but we have each other. Everything I’m doing — it’s  _good_ , it  _means_  something. I know this situation isn’t exactly ideal, but…”  _…if I was going to label any place as home, it’d be here_. “Also, you’re kind of permanently stuck with me now, so you’re just going to have to deal with that.”

Bucky wrapped his arm around you, somehow keeping his hand attached to yours. “I think you were stuck with me first.”

You smiled, a puff of laughter leaving your nose. You blinked in the darkness of the room, listening to Bucky’s breathing, him warm and solid next to you.

You thought about your future.

The one that was designated for you.

And you rejected it.

 

“I’m not going to let anything happen to you,” you whispered into the crook of his neck, and let sleep overtake you.

 

* * *

 

The city was holding a carnival the next day, the anniversary of you and Bucky living there. Bucky, who only had vague memories of carnivals, agreed to let you take him as a way to celebrate.

A thousand colours greeted you as you walked down the street, the shrieking sound of children’s laughter filling your ears. Smells of popcorn and cotton candy wafted into your noses and you tugged on Bucky’s hand upon seeing a woman start a sword-eating trick.

Fire performers, acrobats, curiosities — they had it all. There was even a  _Ferris wheel_ , one that was large and tall and took you up high into the sky when you were at the very top.

The two of you could see half the city as you sat in your Ferris wheel cart; you watched people mill about below and enjoy the festivities.

You were on your way to play those rigged carnival games that you were sure an expertly trained assassin could easily win when you passed a fortune teller’s booth.

The woman standing outside of the curtain, dressed in colourful cloth and an assortment of jewelry, beckoned to you as you passed.

“[Care to have your fortune told?]” she asked you, and you stopped.

“[That depends on whether or not this is a hoax],” you replied with an amused tone.

“[No hoax],” she said. [“Come. See what the cards have to tell you.]”

You considered it for a moment, looking to Bucky. He shrugged. “[Sure. Why not],” he said.

The two of you stepped toward her, but the Fortune Teller held up her hand. “[Her only, not you.]”

Bucky narrowed his eyes at the Fortune Teller, then at you.

“[It’s okay],” you told him. “[Go get us some popcorn. This probably won’t take very long.]”

He hesitated for a moment, then nodded at you and started making his way toward concessions.

You followed the Fortune Teller through the curtain and into her booth. It was dimly lit with the smell of incense burning. You half-expected there to be a large crystal ball in the middle of the table, but instead there was a pack of tarot cards. Intricate designs covered the backs.

“[Sit],” she told you, gesturing to the chair, and you complied. She began shuffling the cards. “[Have you ever had your fortune told for you before?]”

You smiled. “[Do Buzzfeed quizzes count?]” you joked.

She ignored the comment. “[Have you ever had your future told for you before?]”

 _Yes_.

“[No],” you replied.

The Fortune Teller hummed in response. She spread out the cards before you, all faced down. “[You will pick three cards, and I will tell you what each of them mean.]”

Sounded easy enough. You chose your first card and flipped it over.

The front faces were beautifully painted, likely by hand. The image was of two figures, intertwined, embracing each other, their faces only inches apart from the other.

“[The Lovers],” the Fortune Teller told you, a knowing smile spreading across her face. “[The man that you were with…?]”

Your face grew hot despite yourself. “[No, we’re not together, he’s just…]” you struggled to find the right word, “[…a friend.]”

She chuckled. “[The Lovers card does not always mean a romantic relationship. It is a partnership.]” She picked up the card. “[And it is one that is important to you. Trust in this relationship. You are stronger together than you are alone.]”

She put the card down, then gestured for you to take another. You did.

The next card was of a robed woman in blue cloth sitting upon a throne. She held a scroll in her hand.

[“It’s upside-down],” you commented, confused.

“[The High Priestess, Reversed],” the Fortune Teller said. “[Upright, The High Priestess represents knowledge and intuition. But Reversed, she represents secrets, withdrawal, silence.]”

You stilled slightly, then shifted and leaned forward in your seat. “[And what does she say about secrets?]”

“[That you keep them],” she said, “[and that they are dangerous ones. But keeping secrets will not help you. You cannot keep them forever.]” She held up The Lovers card again. “[Trust your partner, remember?]”

Your lips pulled into a tight line, and you leaned back in your chair. You avoided the eyes of the Fortune Teller, afraid that she would be able to tell that you weren’t planning on taking her advice.

“[Pick your last card],” she spoke after a moment.

You sighed and reached across the table for your third fortune.

 

Your heart nearly stopped.

 

The image was a white skeleton starkly painted upon a black background. He held a scythe in his hand. You didn’t have to ask her what it was.

“[Death],” you said in a small voice.

The Fortune Teller gave you a sympathetic smile, then took the card from your hand. “[Death does not mean what most people believe it means. Death represents change, rebirth, transformation.]” She gave the card back to you, cupping her hands around yours so you would hold the card with all your fingers. “There is a transformation, a rebirth, in your future; I see that now. Change is an important part of life. And so is death.”

You felt uneasy as you looked upon the card, as you thought about the last time someone had told you your future. You didn’t want Death to be a part of it; you wouldn’t  _let_  Death be a part of it.

The Fortune Teller grasped your hands tightly. “If you cannot accept your rebirth, if you cannot accept the death that is inevitable upon your path, then it will  _consume_  you. It will consume everything.”

You blinked and looked up at her, an unsettling feeling filling you. “When did you start speaking English?”

 

**The room spun and shifted like**

**S**

**M**

**O**

**K**

**E**

**, a tornado of energy wiping away the Fortune Teller**

**, the cards**

**, the table**

**, the room**

**, _everything_.**

**You held onto your chair and shut your eyes, feeling the wind tear at your body as if it was trying to erase you, too.**

**You opened your eyes when it stopped, and what you found was something you never would have expected.**

**Your mentor sat across from you, her nails immaculate as she examined a chess piece in her hand. The table in front of you held a strange chess board — black and white, like usual, pieces in its place, like usual, but there was an em tiness to it, like the game had already been played half-way through.**

**“Emma?” you spoke, disbelief colouring your tone. You shook your head, squeezing your eyes shut for just a moment. “No. You’re not real. This is an illusion.”**

**She hummed in response. “Illusions are powerful things, Y/N,” she said. “That’s what I taug t you. Anyone can be controlled with the right motivation. Even the most powerful piece on the board—” she looked at the White Queen she held, “—can be manipulated. Tell me, Y/N,” she set down her Queen, “which is the most imp rtant piece?”**

**You didn’t want to play this game with her. You wanted to leave this illusion, find Bucky, go home. But your teeth ground together as you reluctantly answered her. “The King.”**

**She linked her fingers together, observing you. “Why?”**

**You breathed harshly through your nose. “When the King dies the game ends. You can’t keep playing after that.”**

**Emma seemed unimpressed with your answer. “The King is the most important piece because he controls all the other pieces. The quiet manipulator. The game ends when he dies b cause he can no longer tell all the other pieces what to do.” She picked up the White Queen again. “If the Queen is so powerful, why doesn’t she just overthrow the King? Why doesn’t she fight back agai st his orders?”**

**You gave Emma a confused look. “She can’t.”**

**Her gaze was expecting. “Why not?”**

**The more the seconds ticked by, the more frustrated you were becoming. “You want to debate the philosophy of chess with me? I don’t know. That’s just how the game works.” You looked down at the chess board, finally realizing why it felt empty. “Why are we playing with only half a board anyway? Half the pieces are missing.” You looked closer, your eyebrows knitting together. “I don’t even have a King.” You leaned back and looked at her. “You win automatically.”**

**Emma played with the White Queen in her hand. “Then perhaps it’s time you sw tched sides.” She took the piece and placed it ne t to her other white pieces, then turned it half-way. The back of the Queen was painted black, black like the pieces on your side of the board.**

**_(There was a pounding in your head. In your subconscious, there was a word. One word.)_ **

**You gaped at her. “That’s my Queen. You can’t play with my Queen, that’s not how the game works.”**

**She picked up the Black Queen. “It is now.” She set it down in the middle of the board, and flames erupted from it as soon as it touched, consuming the board and all of its pieces — spreading across the table and down onto the floor and up the curtains of the booth.**

**You stood, scrambling to escape the fire that was destroying everything. You fell backwards through the curtain,**

and found the world to be normal on the other side. Chest heaving, you saw the booth was untouched, perfectly safe from what you had been convinced were very real flames just a second ago.

The only difference was the ‘Closed’ sign that had been placed on the curtain entrance. When you pulled it back, the Fortune Teller was gone.

“Hey.”

You whipped around to find Bucky behind you, holding two buckets of popcorn. He gave you a concerned look when he took in your flustered state. “Are you okay?”

You made an effort to slow your breathing, and you looked back behind you once before nodding. “Just…cryptic bullshit,” you told him.

Is it lying if it’s wishful thinking?

“Are you sure?” he asked, not seeming convinced. “You look…spooked.”

You hugged yourself, as if you could make yourself disappear. “Can we just go home?”

He looked like he wanted to ask more, but instead he nodded and handed you your popcorn. You walked next to him, closer than maybe you usually would. You didn’t eat any of the popcorn; you couldn’t stomach it.

When you arrived at the apartment, Bucky went over to the small TV you two owned. “Do you want to watch a movie?”

You gave him a small smile and nodded, some of your anxiety starting to dissipate.

You were watching him go through some choices when you realized that there was something in your pocket that wasn’t there before. Reaching down, you fished out a tarot card.

Words were scribbled on the back.  _Accept what you  cannot control._

Your eyes narrowed at the sentence, then flipped over the card.

 

The Lovers.

 

Confusion spread across your face. You had expected the Death card; after all, that was the advice the Fortune Teller had given you that most resembled what she had written to you now. But The Lovers… .

You glanced up at Bucky, an uneasiness beginning to run through you — a sense of dread, a sense of foreboding.

 

You ripped up the card.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love cryptic bullshit. Also symbolism.


	20. Part 2 - Chapter Twenty: Guilty (You're Not You're Not You're Not)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You and Bucky discuss what it means to be guilty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Suicide mention

You thought you knew what war was like. You’d seen movies; you knew the things that happened during World War II. **  
**

Seeing it was different.

You and Bucky walked side-by-side next to the Howling Commandos through the city, led by Steve Rogers and Bucky’s own past self. You couldn’t even tell which city you were in — only that it was probably in Europe, and that it was crumbling.

“It’s so…quiet,” you whispered. The only noise came from the Commandos, with their steps and their voices and the sound of their weapons hanging off their sides.

Bucky, your Bucky, who had been observing a small fire that was burning within a window of smashed glass, glanced back over at you. “Everyone’s gone,” he murmured.

One of the Commandos said something to Bucky, past Bucky, that you didn’t catch. He grinned and laughed in response. The sound made your heart hurt. A lot of things about Bucky’s past self made your heart hurt.

He deserved so much more than what he got.

“I think about this a lot,” Bucky said to you in a small voice, as if speaking too loudly would somehow attract attention to the two of you in that silent, broken city. “I…miss it. As much as someone can miss something they only partly remember, anyway.” His mouth was pulled into a tight line.

You regarded him softly. “You make it sound like it’s a bad thing.”

“It  _is_  a bad thing.”

A melancholy sigh left your mouth. “Oh, Bucky…”

“Look at this, Y/N!” He gestured around you. “I’m missing a war.”

“You’re missing your  _friends_ ,” you insisted. “Missing the life you used to have. Missing saving people instead of—” You hesitated, and Bucky saved you from having to finish your sentence.

“Yeah,” he said. “I know.” He stared at the ground as you continued to walk ahead next to the Commandos.

You looked at him for a long time, unsure what to say. Out of the corner of your eye, a certain red and blue shield caught your attention.

Steve Rogers, serious as you remembered, yet complete in a way he never was as you knew him — complete with his best friend at his side.

“Maybe,” you began, your attention slowly sliding back to Bucky, “…Maybe, one day, we’ll be able to go back to—”

A sudden gunshot rang through the city and you ducked instinctively. Bucky, your Bucky, moved to shield you with his body despite the lack of any real danger.

 _“What the fuck was that?!”_  one of the Commandos yelled as they took cover.

 _“Sniper!”_  another shouted.  _“The clocktower — you see him?”_

You and Bucky joined his past self and Steve at the side of the street. You found yourself seeing through past Bucky’s eyes as he pulled out a sniper rifle and peered through the scope. There was indeed a shadow of a man with a gun in the place where the clock of the fractured clocktower was once whole.

You flinched again as another bullet hit the ground.

 _“Bucky!”_  Steve said, a question in his voice.

 _“Just a second — I got him.”_  Voice level and hands steady, Bucky’s past self lined up the shot, then pulled the trigger.

The next second the sniper was falling out of the clocktower. You closed your eyes to avoid watching the impact as he hit the ground.

Bucky, your Bucky, gently pulled your arm and the two of you followed his past self and Steve out from hiding.

 _“Take that ya Nazi bastard — oh,_ shit _.”_

The Commando that had gone to finish the German soldier off slowly lowered his gun, his face growing pale.

Something was wrong.

The two of you trailed behind Bucky’s past self as he approached the bleeding and broken mess that was the sniper.

It was just a kid. Fifteen years old, maybe. Tears poured from his eyes, his sobbing choked by blood spurting from his mouth.

 _“No, no, no, no, no—”_  Past Bucky knelt down and pressed his hands over the wound, the wound that he caused.  _“Fuck! They’re giving kids guns now? Fuck — c’mon kid—”_

_“Barnes.”_

_“Kid, don’t — you can’t just—”_

_“Bucky.”_  Steve put his hand on Bucky’s shoulder.  _“He’s gone, Buck.”_

You were pulled out of the memory very suddenly and watched as Bucky stood, repeatedly rubbing at his eyes. He began pacing. You could feel the waves of guilt and sadness coming off from him, and your vision was blurred by tears of your own.

“I  _thought_ —” and his voice broke. _I know what I’ve done, for Hydra_ , his mind spoke to yours.  _All the fucked up, horrible things — but I thought, I thought that at least I_ used _to be a good man._

You stood. “You were a good man, Bucky.  _Are_  a good man. One death doesn’t change that.”

“It was a  _kid_! I killed a kid.  _I_  did that — not Hydra giving me orders,  _me_. Back  _before everything_. Back before they made me a monster—”  _—I already was one._

“That wasn’t your fault! You couldn’t have known—”

He rubbed his hands over his face. “We can’t keep having this conversation, Y/N. At some point, you need to let me take responsibility for these things! I’m guilty!”

“No!” You faced him down, trying to meet his eyes. “Not when they’re not your fault — you’re  _not guilty_  and I won’t let you keep believing that!”

“Then let me ask you this—” He finally looked at you,  _really_  looked at you with emotions you could not describe. “Why am I allowed to be absolved of guilt and you’re not?”

You took a step back, surprised by the shift in the conversation, and Bucky took an immediate step forward to follow, as if the two of you had been moving in tandem from the start.

“You think I can’t feel it? Feel you, your guilt?” Another step back, another step forward. “How is that fair? That I’m somehow… _innocent_ , while you’re guilty for these things that you’ve done — that you  _haven’t_  done yet?”

Step together. “What are you talking about?”

Step together (he stepped forward, you stepped back). “Remember the day I taught you self defense? You got really drunk and you…said some things. About you. About your tattoo. About what it means.”

Step together. (You couldn’t tell who was moving first anymore.) Now your back was pressed against the table and you had nowhere to go. “Bucky,” you said, a warning. “Don’t.”

“You told me it’s a death sentence. You said it wasn’t  _your_  death sentence.”

 _One rule, Bucky_ , you thought to him.  _We have_ one _rule._

“You said something bad is going to happen, and that it’s going to be your fault,” he continued.

You could feel streams running down your cheeks. “ _Please_. Stop.”

His fists clenched and his face twisted, the volume of his voice rising. “Well I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what’s going on! If you don’t tell me the truth!”

You could see in his mind a memory — the memory of his trip inside your mind, the vision you had locked away.

You matched his tone and level, your words bursting out from somewhere deep inside you. “I’m going to hurt a lot of people, Bucky, is that what you want to hear? A seer showed me my future and now I have to take responsibility for what I’m going to do!”

He paused, taking in your confession, but barely broke his stride. “Why? You haven’t done anything yet — why do you get to be guilty for something that hasn’t happened?”

“ _BECAUSE I COULD END MY LIFE RIGHT NOW AND STOP ALL OF IT!_ ” you screamed at him, and the silence that followed your words was practically deafening. “If I was dead,” you continued in a quieter voice, “then the vision wouldn’t come true. I’m guilty because I know how to stop it from happening, but I can’t—” You couldn’t finish your sentence, your voice dissolving into broken sobbing that was choking your throat.

Bucky’s hands immediately went up to cradle your face. As soon as he touched you — you crumbled. Your knees gave out and the only thing holding you up was him. His grip was as fierce as it was gentle, with his metal arm supporting you and his flesh hand wiping tears from your face.  Slowly, he lowered the both of you to the floor.

“You’re not guilty because you want to  _live_ , Y/N,” he whispered, but it might as well have been the loudest thing he had ever said.

“I don’t know how it starts,” you said between hiccups, “I don’t know how it happens — I-I don’t know how else to stop it.”

“We’re going to fix this,” he said. “We’re going to make sure there’s a third outcome, I promise you that.”

“ _How?_ ”

He breathed through his nose. “We’ll…cross that bridge when we get to it.”

Despite the situation, a weak-sounding laugh escaped your mouth. Bucky wrapped both his arms around you in a tight hug and you closed your eyes.

“I…think we should keep going.”

You pulled back at his words, your face a mixture of surprise and concern. “With your memories? Are you sure?”

“We were close to something else, I could feel it,” he said. “Something important.” He found your hand and squeezed it. “Are you okay to keep going?”

You nodded and silently slipped your hand to cup the side of his face. Still embracing on the floor of the apartment, the two of you closed your eyes and let reality fall away.

 

* * *

 

_“No, no, no, no, no — Fuck! They’re giving kids guns now? Fuck — c’mon kid—”_

You didn’t need to watch this part of the memory again. Bucky paused a moment to look, to see the boy that had died as a result of war — then moved on, passing the boy to open the door of the clocktower.

The stairs behind the door went down, not up. Cold air wafted up from below, white flakes of snow blowing into your faces and causing you to momentarily block your face with your hand.

“Bucky,” you murmured as you listened to the sound of wind whistling, “I don’t know about this.”

He glanced over at you. “Y/N, you can’t protect me from all the things I’ve done, all the things that have happened to me.” This time he turned his body, fulling facing you and making sure to meet your eyes. “But you can help me  _through_  them.”

You hesitated, taking a deep breath. You looked down the stairs again, feeling,  _knowing_  where this was going — where the stairs would lead. Your eyes went back to his (his blue, blue eyes — but not cold, not anymore) and you bit your lip.

You reached out and took his hand, lacing your fingers with his. He took this as a sign to continue, and the two of you began your descent together.

The first thing you noticed was the crunch and wetness of snow beneath your feet. The second was a numbness in your left arm.

The frozen air hurt your lungs when you breathed, and your breath billowed into clouds in front of you.

“So this is it,” Bucky murmured as he stared down at the bleeding, frozen body that was his own self. He looked up, up above him. “You can’t even see the train tracks from down here.”

The ravine seemed to stretch on forever in both directions. The two of you waited, in the cold and in the snow, until the men came to take Bucky away.

You walked alongside them in silence as they pulled past Bucky’s barely conscious body along. You made sure you didn’t let go of his hand, your Bucky’s hand.

“Where would you rate this?” he asked you after a few minutes of walking. “In the building metaphor. Where would you put this memory? On the ground floor? Before all the shit that happens in the basement?”

“It goes on the bottom,” you whispered in a small, small voice. You looked at him. “It’s the inciting incident. It’s what causes…everything else. It goes on the bottom.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched and he swallowed, nodding slowly. His grip on your hand (your  _left_  hand) tightened.

You were having a hard time feeling it.

The memory stuttered as Bucky’s past self fell in and out of consciousness. The next thing you knew, you weren’t in the ravine anymore, but in a laboratory. Bucky’s past self was strapped to an operating table.

Next came the most excruciating pain you had ever experienced.

They were amputating his  _arm_  and you could  _feel_  it

every bit of

it

and it

you coul

dnt

_think_

SCREAMING

 

HI

S

 

AN

D

 

YO

URS

 

P

AI

N

 

H

IS

 

A

ND

 

Y

OUR

S

 

He

 

fe

ll

 

in

and

ou

t

 

of cons

ciou

snes

s.

 

Next was conditioning.

Conditioning.

Conditioning

Repeating

Again

Again.

 

Kill.

Kill.

For Hydra.

For Hydra.

 

No.

_No._

_NO._

You could feel his resistance, his refusal to be turned into a weapon, to comply. It was loud, it was insistent. It was the one thing he was holding onto.

You couldn’t tell how long they spent trying to change him. It feel like minutes, like months, like years, like forever.

Until they stopped trying to change him.

Until they started using his resistance to their own advantage.

 

They started conditioning him to associate being a monster with being a hero.

You saw through his eyes

saw him shoot an innocent person

but see him see himself  _saving_  an innocent person

and you finally understood how they turned a good man into a villain.

 

* * *

 

When the threshold of pain was met, you pulled Bucky and yourself out of the memory, the two of you left gasping.

Bucky’s hands went to your face; his eyes, filled with tears, scanned you frantically. “Are you okay?” he asked, unconcerned for his own well-being and instead focused on yours.

You didn’t answer his question; instead, you took Bucky’s hands in yours and stood. His eyes followed you up where he rested on his knees before you. “You are a good man, Bucky. Hydra didn’t change that.” His eyes narrowed and you continued. “Don’t you see? Hydra had to  _convince_  you that you were doing the right thing to get you to do what they wanted. They may have tried to turn you into a monster, Bucky, but you have  _always_  been a good man.” You took his metal hand and pressed a lingering kiss to his palm. “You don’t have to be guilty, anymore.”

Bucky took a deep breath and squeezed his eyes shut. He reached out for you and wrapped his arms around your waist. You hugged his head to your middle and rested your cheek on his hair.

 

_We’re gonna be alright._

_We’re gonna be alright._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Only a few more chapters left in Part 2. Y’all ready for present-day Part 3?  
> Also some constructive feedback would be really nice! Tell me what parts you liked, what parts you're excited for, what parts you're curious about! I don't add symbolism and hidden messages just for myself, y'know ;)


	21. Part 2 - Chapter Twenty-One: Two One Night Stands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You find an…interesting memory of Bucky that leads into an interesting conversation between the two of you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Sexual content

“Tell me the plan again.” **  
**

You were pulled out of the make-believe reality of your current book by Bucky’s voice. You blinked at him from across the table, where he sat with his journal and a pen. There was a frown on your face.

“Why?” you asked.

“It’s been a while since we’ve gone over it,” he replied. “I need to make sure you haven’t forgotten anything.”

With a deep sigh, you marked your place in your book and sat back in your chair. You spoke slowly. “In the event that we get separated…we head to the closest train station. We wait a maximum of half an hour for the other person, then buy a ticket to the third city listed on the board.”

Bucky’s head tilted slightly to the side. His left brow raised delicately.  _And?_  he asked.

Your eyes narrowed.  _And what?_

“And you get on the train. With or  _without_  the other person.”

You leaned forward in your seat, your nails scraping lightly over your tattoo in a nervous fashion. “I don’t understand why we can’t just…choose a city with the same first letter as the current month or something like that. If we just pick the third city listed and then  _leave_ …how are we supposed to know where the other has gone? How are we supposed to find each other afterwards?”

Bucky leaned forward in his own seat, mirroring you. “You know why. If we know where the other is going, and one of us gets captured, then they could torture the information out of us.” Your eyes wandered away from him at the mention of torture, your nails digging into your skin. “We’ll find a way to find each other. Don’t worry.”

Your gaze found his again. “And if one of us  _does_  get captured? Where’s the rescue plan if the other has no idea?”

“I’m not going to let anything happen to you,” he said, slowly, steadily.

You gritted your teeth.  _I’m not talking about_  me, you said to his mind. “What do you expect me to do? Get on a train without you and don’t ever look back? Live my life on my own not knowing whether or not you’re alive? Captured? Looking for me?”

Bucky sat back in his chair. “If it comes to that.”

Your mouth twisted unhappily. “Why doesn’t the same apply to you?”

“Because I don’t have a particular pacifistic code of ethics.”

He was technically right, but that didn’t make you any less mad about it. Well, mad wasn’t exactly the right emotion. Upset was closer. So was panicked. Worried. Afraid.

You needed him. Your friend. You couldn’t date when exactly Bucky Barnes had become the most important person in your life, but you knew that losing him couldn’t be an option.

Bucky didn’t wait for you to respond, instead standing and going to put away his journal. You weren’t sure how many of those he had filled by now. “We should probably start a session before it gets too late.”

You crossed your arms as you leaned back in your chair, drumming your fingers on your arm.  _This conversation isn’t over,_  you projected as your eyes followed him.

He gave you a brief look as if to say  _“I know”_ , but declined to answer vocally or telepathically. He sat down on the floor in his usual spot, glancing at you over his shoulder, eyebrows raised slightly. Waiting.

You breathed through your nose and finally stood from your chair. He faced forward again when you settled down behind him, and you gently placed your hand at the side of his head.

 

The room bled out and was replaced by a different room: big and spacious, filled with tables and chairs and people. Laughter and voices rose from the silence, and you took a moment to survey what you could now tell was some kind of bar.

It was ‘40s themed, which was always a good sign. Honestly, you didn’t know if you could handle a Winter Soldier memory right now, not with the fragile feeling that your conversation with Bucky left in your heart.

It didn’t take long to find him — Bucky’s past self. He was smiling and drinking up at the bar, chatting with a blonde woman who kept touching his arm. Per the norm, you and Bucky, the present Bucky, were silent as you watched and listened to the memory as it played. At some point you had sat down at one of the tables.

After some time, your head tilted to the side where Bucky was sitting next to you, your eyes kept on his past self and the blonde woman. “You were good.”

You looked at him as his eyebrows knitting together. “What do you mean?”

“At flirting,” you clarified. “You were a good flirt.”

He didn’t respond to the comment, only looking back at his past self as if to confirm whether what you had said was true.

You leaned forward in your seat, resting your cheek into your hand. “Do you think you could do that now?” you asked simply.

He glanced at you, then back to himself and the woman. “I wouldn’t know what to say,” he replied after a time.

You sat back, grinning. “You don’t even need to worry about that. Your past self may have been charismatic, but you’re all dark and brooding,” you teased him. “Women love that.”

He looked like he was attempting to hold back an amused smile, or trying not to roll his eyes at your remark. You rested your arms back on the table, setting your chin back in your hand as you watched.

“If you could just remaster those  _bedroom_  eyes, then you’d be golden,” you teased further…only half joking.

It seemed like he was going to say something back, 

 

when suddenly the world shifted and rippled, the memory changing into something else.

 

Heavy breathing met your ears as the well-lit bar became something dimmer. Smaller. Softer.

And there was Bucky. Lying on a bed. Lying  _on top of someone_  on a bed. Without any clothes.

You had never seen Bucky’s past self without a shirt. He was considerably leaner, and without the scars that currently marred what was remaining of his left arm.

That left hand, his past self’s still existing left hand, glided up the thigh of the blonde woman, disappearing under the fabric of her pushed-up dress. She mewled in response and writhed underneath him, her breath catching as his lips met the column of her throat. The top half of her dress was pulled down; her bra was missing, haphazardly thrown across the room somewhere. Bucky’s past self brushed his lips farther down, nipping her breast and soothing the sting with his tongue afterward. She said his name, breathy, sighing, and then said it again, and he brought his lips back up to hers.

His right hand reached for her other thigh and hooked her leg around his waist.

You could  _feel_  it when he entered her, as if you were in his place — her skin soft under your hands, the salty taste of her in your mouth, the smell of sweat, hers and Bucky’s, in your nose.

You didn’t know at exactly which point you had stopped breathing.

The blonde woman was loud, but all you could hear was the sound of Bucky’s own noises, and how much they —  _he_  was starting to affect you.

There was a pressure building between your thighs, and you honestly weren’t sure if it was Bucky’s or your own.

His breath stuttered and he swore softly, breathing what must have been the woman’s name. The feeling was becoming overwhelming; it was becoming harder and harder to focus. There was a sensation of nails running down your back, but it was nothing compared to the sharp and sudden explosion of everything reaching its very peak.

 

Waves of what was left still hit you as you pulled yourself out of Bucky’s head, your mind so immersed in his memory that your own body betrayed you. You did your best to steady your breathing, trying not to pant as your face heated hotter than ever.

Bucky, the Bucky sitting before you as you moved backwards and stood, also seemed somewhat out of breath.

You leaned against the table behind you and resisted the urge to cross your legs. You covered your face with your hand, your skin very warm under your fingers. “I’m sorry!” you said, you practically  _squeaked_. “That was probably way more personal than you wanted me to see.”

“More personal than watching me commit horrifyingly gruesome murders?” he said after a time. When you lowered your hand from your eyes, he ran his flesh hand through his hair and scratched his neck. “Honestly, I’d rather you see that than some of the other things you’ve already seen. At least that’s…normal.”

You crossed your arms and licked your lips, avoiding his eyes. “I guess you have a point.”

(You missed the way Bucky’s eyes darted to your lips as you wetted them — his intake of breath and harsh swallow followed by his own avoidant gaze.)

You cleared your throat. “So, do you remember who she was?”

He looked up for a moment, as if he was searching the memory. “Uh…Her name was…Elizabeth? She was…nice. I think I liked her. I didn’t see her again after that, though.”

You pulled up a chair, your eyebrows raised. “I didn’t know one-night-stands were a thing in the ‘40s.” You thanked God that your voice could stay casual, that you got the chance to calm your body down.

“Well, yeah,” he said, looking like he was thinking about it. “I mean, it wasn’t as frequent as I guess it is now but…it happened sometimes.” He shook his head. “But that wasn’t a one-night-stand. At least, I don’t think it was supposed to be.”

Your head tilted to the side. “What do you mean?”

“I was gonna meet her again,” he clarified. He crossed his arms. “Why didn’t I… .?” His brow smoothed in realization, and the corners of his mouth pulled upwards slightly.

“What?”

“Steve,” Bucky said, not quite looking directly at you, as if he was lost in the memory. “He got himself into some kind of trouble the night I was supposed to go out with her again.” He chuckled a bit. “What a punk.”

Then his eyebrows pulled back together and his smile faded somewhat, as if he didn’t understand the term of endearment that had just left his mouth. Like it had been something he had long forgotten and just remembered.

His smile returned, a bit softer this time, and you could see the gears turning in his head as he replayed the memory for himself over and over again.

 

* * *

 

“Do you miss it?”

Bucky leaned his head into his hand as he sat on the floor across from you. “Miss what?”

“Sex.”

His eyebrows raised at first, then knitted together as he thought about it. “Well…I’m assuming the last sex I had was about seventy years ago…but I guess I haven’t really thought about it.”

 _Liar_ , you thought.

Bucky gave you a semi-surprised look and you inwardly cringed. He was not supposed to hear that one.

“Sorry,” you said.

“Alright, so I’ve thought about it,” he confessed. “But it’s not like…like I think about it all the time. It’s not like I’m actively wanting to… .” He gestured vaguely. “But…to answer your question — Yes. I miss sex.”

“Seventy years is a long time,” you mused. “It’s like your virginity all over again.”

He laughed through his nose, an amused smile gracing his features as he shook his head. “Yeah. I guess it is.” Bucky gave you a hard stare with those blue eyes of his. “What about you?”

You snorted. “I’m not a virgin.”

That blue was unwavering. “I didn’t think you were.” His response, his tone, served to heat your blood, just a tad. Bucky continued, “But that’s not what I was asking. Do you miss it? Sex?”

“Yeah,” you answered truthfully. “It has been a while.”

“Not a lot of opportunity when you’re running from Hydra,” he concluded. “Unless you’ve been having nightly escapades that you haven’t told me about…?”

You laughed. “Highly trained assassin, you would’ve noticed if I left in the middle of the night.”

“So that’s where you disappear off to sometimes after lunch. I always wondered.”

Your laughter turned into giggling as you shook your head. “No. No sex. But when I said it’s been a while…I didn’t just mean since this whole thing started. Before this, I hadn’t been in a relationship for a little more than half a year. Romantic or physical.”

His head tilted in question. You shrugged.

“It can be difficult to find a partner when you have so many secrets,” you said. “The political climate the way it is right now… .All the unease around mutants… .Sometimes it’s hard to find someone I can trust enough. Only one person I ever dated knew everything — and I mean  _everything_ , everything — but even then I…didn’t confide in…them. With how I was feeling. It’s why…it’s why they eventually left. It wasn’t fair to them.”

Bucky gave you a sympathetic look. “That must be hard for you.”

You shrugged again and scratched at your wrist.  _Comes with the territory._  You weren’t sure whether or not you projected the thought to him; at this point, you weren’t sure it mattered. You attempted to shake off the souring mood. “Anyway, yes, I miss sex.” You leaned back until you were sprawled out, lying on the floor, looking up at the ceiling. “Sex was fun.”

Bucky lied back to join you. “Yeah.”

You pulled your bottom lip between your teeth, your mind wandering to the memory you had become wrapped up in earlier that day.  _Fuck_ , you missed sex. Wandering further, you wondered if Bucky would be the same in bed the way he was in the ‘40s, or if everything that happened to him would make a difference. Would he be rougher? More careful?

You chastised yourself for thinking about him that way. It wasn’t right, especially not with the chance that he could  _hear_  you—

Your face heated. “Bucky?” you ventured.

He cleared his throat. “Yeah?” he replied in a strained tone. Well,  _that_  wasn’t a good sign that you were in the clear.

“…Can I make a suggestion?” You weren’t sure where that came from. It wasn’t what you were  _going_  to say, which was more along the lines of,  _“I’m going to go take a cold shower now.”_

“Sure,” he breathed.

You sat up, then stood, pacing slightly. “Well, this thing we’re doing here, hiding out from Hydra — it doesn’t look like it’s ending any time soon.”  _What are you_ saying _?_  “And I’m not about to just go out and let a stranger take me home.” O _h my God. You’re actually going to do it, aren’t you?_  “And I…trust you.”  _You’re doing it; you’re asking him._  “It might help us relax a bit more, get rid of some of the extra stress… .” You finally worked up the courage to look at him.

He swallowed. “Just so I’m getting this right… .You’re talking about sex.”

“Yes.”

“With me.”

Your whole body flushed with heat. “…Yes.”

He stood up to face you. His blue eyes, somewhat darker now, kept darting down to your lips. He licked his own. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Yes. But only if you are,” you added. “This  _is_  Your Virginity: The Sequel.”

He smiled amusedly and shook his head. “I’ll be fine.”

“Good. Take off your shirt, then.”

His eyes accepted the challenge in your own, and he pulled his shirt over his head. You followed suit, then removed your pants, watching as he removed his own.

His eyes were definitely darker as they roamed the curves of your body. You took your own time to observe him, although this in particular was nothing you hadn’t seen (or slightly objectified) before. Now that you thought about it, Bucky had at least seen you in your underwear before. This was nothing. Or it would be, if not for the connotation — if not for what you were about to do.

You took his hand and led him to the bed, lightly pressing down on his shoulders when you came to the edge so he would sit. Slowly, still standing, you slipped your underwear down your thighs, past your knees, letting them drop to your ankles. You stepped out of them as you watched Bucky do the same; his eyes were on you the entire time.

He  _must_  have been hearing your thoughts earlier — he was ready for you. You felt a pressure building in your core; you shivered as one cold and one warm hand brushed up the sides of your thighs and rested on your hips. He massaged your hip bone with his thumbs, and his hands urged you down.

You came to rest on your knees, one leg around each side of him. His callused flesh hand rubbed the outside of your thigh in long, swift strokes, wanting to touch you,  _feel_  you.

You braced your arms around his massive shoulders, bringing your body closer to his. His metal hand squeezed your hip while his flesh hand made circles into the inside of your thigh, closer and closer with each swipe to the place that so badly needed him.

He brushed the sensitive part of you and you involuntarily let out a small cry. He did it again, applying more pressure this time. You breathed heavily, your face practically inches from his own, his thumb still working circles around you. You think his name may have tumbled from your lips a couple times, an almost instinctive response to his movements.

“You said—”  _Fuck_. Words were difficult. “You haven’t…had…” A noise erupting from you interrupting your train of thought momentarily. “…sex, in seventy years. We haven’t even — and you’re already—” You dug your nails into the skin of his shoulder, his back.

He put his lips next to your ear. “I still remember the basics, it’s not as hard as you might think.”

You closed your eyes, his breath in your ear leaving shivers behind. “Tell that to some of the men I’ve been with.”

The hand gripping your hip tightened, and his thumb worked faster, making you whimper in response.

You were sitting in his lap, inches away from what you needed, and yet he was already making you come undone.

You shimmied forward and he let out his own involuntary groan as you brushed the length of him, moving his flesh hand from your center to still your hips.

“Careful,” he practically growled into your ear. “It’s still been seventy years.”

“I’ll be gentle,” you promised, your mouth a breath away from his. Slowly, you lifted your hips, letting him guide you at his own pace.

Inch by agonizing inch, you slid down onto him, letting him fill you up. You bit the place between his neck and his metal shoulder, and you left angry red lines on his back. He swore when he was fully sheathed inside you, mumbling your name almost incoherently.

When you had both adjusted, you began moving, slowly, oh so slowly, up and back down again. When it seemed like he was comfortable enough, you began to pick up the pace of your hips, letting him meet you thrust for thrust.

He was probably leaving bruises on your skin from where he was gripping you, but all you could focus on was the feeling of Bucky intertwined with you,  _inside_  you, creating a friction that was building,  _building_ —

Your panting increased, and at some point you cried his name and he kept on, going faster,  _faster_ —

You were losing all coherency as the pressure inside of you built and built and built and  _finally_ —

 

* * *

 

You woke.

Your breathing was laboured as leftover sensations lingered — even as your dream began to recede to the edges of your mind.

You should not be having dreams like that.

You  _definitely_  should not be having dreams like that.

Bucky was your friend. More than that — right now, he was the only person existing in your life. You could never jeopardize that by bringing something like sex into the mix. You didn’t need it that bad.

The dream was a result of a rehashing of the memory you had seen earlier. There was nothing more to that. And nothing more that you were going to worry about.

Although…the dream  _was_  strangely vivid… .No. That didn’t mean anything.

A flourish of panic ran through you in the next second as you realized you were  _alone_. You sat up quickly, searching the dark apartment until you saw light bleeding from under the bathroom door.

Sure enough, you could hear Bucky inside, the tap running briefly before turning off. The light switched off next, and you settled back down before the door could open.

Closing your eyes, you could hear Bucky padding over to the bed. He paused. Just for a moment.

Then he lifted the covers and laid down beside you, gently curving his cool metal fingers around your wrist to place your hand atop the curve of his jaw. His breathing slowed, and your nightly vigil to keep his nightmares away began once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: You didn’t really think I was going to have them have sex before they even realized their feelings for each other, did you? I wouldn’t do you guys like that, not after all this slow burn build up. 
> 
> Ugh, gosh, this chapter took me so long to get to. I’ve never written smut before, and I wanted to make sure it was somewhat tasteful and not…cringey, I guess? I hope I did an okay job. 
> 
> Now that I’m done this year of school I’m hoping to write more regularly. Thank you to those who were patiently waiting for the next chapter to be written! Love you guys.


	22. Part 2 - Chapter Twenty-Two: Somewhere in Europe, 1945

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You and Bucky plan to go to your neighbour’s New Year’s Eve party. In one of Bucky’s memories, he and Steve talk about marriage and Bucky meets someone special.

You lounged on the old yellow couch you and Bucky had brought up a few weeks ago — you found it in the storage unit of the apartment complex. The super had told you the owner had moved away and left it behind, so you asked if you could take it. It was a nice addition to your small apartment, something else to sit on besides chairs or a bed that was really just a mattress. **  
**

“You still want to go to the neighbour’s for New Year’s?” Bucky asked you from the kitchen, where he was washing dishes from dinner. He turned to face you as he absentmindedly dried a plate.

He was wearing the shirt you had given him for Christmas — a black t-shirt with Captain America’s shield emblazoned on the front. Your own Christmas gift from him was sitting on the bed: a cute little Bucky Bear its namesake had found at the flea market.

Apparently, the Howling Commandos were somewhat of a PR stunt, and so a lot of merch was created to promote the war effort. It was sort of similar to all the Captain America stuff that was made popular around the same time. One particular form of merchandise were the bears — Captain America Bears and Bucky Bears and bears made of the various other Commandos. The Bucky Bears wore Bucky’s classic blue jacket and, for some reason, a black domino mask.

Bucky said that, for the life of him, he did not know where the domino mask came from. But he thought you might like a token of his life from the ‘40s and the war. He was right; you  _loved_  it.

“Yeah, I think it’ll be fun,” you replied. Last year, the two of you had stayed in for New Year’s Eve, talking and waiting for the clock to strike midnight and for 2015 to begin. Now that you had been living in Romania for longer, you thought it might be fun to go to a neighbour’s party and get to know them better.

It was things like this, long-term things, that you had started considering more and more. If you and Bucky were going to be potentially living here for five more years (Ten? Longer?), than creating ties with others was an important part of designing a life for the long-term.

Bucky put away the plate he was drying and grabbed a cup. “Do you think we have time for another quick session tonight before we go?” he asked.

“Why? Do you think we were close to something?”

He nodding, putting the cup away in the cupboard. “Yeah, I think so.”

You squinted at the time and gave a vague nod. “Yeah,“ you said, drawing out the word, "we have an hour or so to kill before we have to be there.”

You turned your body so your feet were resting on the ground, then waited for Bucky to finish drying and putting away the dishes. When he was done, he came around and settled in between your legs, resting his back against the bottom of the couch. You placed two hands on either side of his head, your fingers sliding into his hair, just a bit.

 

_“Hey Stevie! Get over here!”_

The setting was somewhat familiar as you watched Bucky’s past self gesture to a young Steve Rogers in a crowded bar. He brought over a few drinks, and a dark haired man with a mustache followed behind moments later.

 _“You’re late,”_  Steve said to the man.

 _“Didn’t think you were going to show, Stark,”_  Bucky added.

You turned to your Bucky, a slight look of concern making its way onto your face. “I remember this memory,” you said to him.

“I thought there was more we might be able to get out of it,” Bucky said as he began moving through the bar. You followed after him.

“The last time we were here it…it didn’t end well,” you said and he stopped, turning to you briefly.

“I know. That’s not going to happen this time.” His flesh hand squeezed your shoulder as a gesture of reassurance, then he continued until he found his way to the back of the place.

“Well?” you asked, eyebrows raised.

He gave you a smile, and pointed. “Stairs.”

Sure enough, when you followed his hand there was a staircase at the back of the bar, probably leading to a second level. Of course, within the realm of memories and telepathy, going up those stairs would lead to somewhere else entirely.

“Want to see where it goes?” Bucky asked, and you returned his smile.

“You first.”

Upstairs — Bucky’s next memory — was a larger, well-lit bar with more people. While the last place was filled with tables, this building had more of an open concept with a dance floor in the middle. Upbeat music played and people laughed and danced.

The first thing that you noticed upon making your way up was not Bucky, for once, but a calendar hanging on the wall. You tapped your Bucky’s shoulder excitedly and showed him what you had found.

“ _Finally_ ,” you exclaimed as you looked closer at it, “an exact date.” A lot of the boxes had Xs over them, so you could tell which date was the current one. “January 22nd, 1945.” You tapped it for good measure, grinning. Most of the time, it was incredibly hard to tell what year any given memory of his took place, let alone month or specific day. It was a rare and small victory for the two of you.

But something about the date sat uneasily with you. You couldn’t remember anything about 1945 and January, but —

Oh.

It wasn’t about this day. It was about what would happen ten days later.

February 1st, 1945 was the day Bucky Barnes fell off a train into a ravine somewhere in the Austrian Alps.

You didn’t think mentioning this to him would be very helpful, so you instead took his hand and led him through the crowd, trying to find his past self.

Past Bucky was leaning his elbows on the bar next to Steve Rogers, sipping a pint of beer.

 _“So,”_  Bucky started, _“two weeks and you get to see Peggy again. Are you excited?”_

You mused that ‘Peggy’ must be Peggy Carter. You learned about her in school and read about her in the Smithsonian. There were a few things about her and Steve possibly having a relationship but it was a lot of hearsay. You supposed it must be true.

Steve gave a shy, almost bashful shrug.  _“Yeah.”_

Bucky elbowed him with a grin.  _“You’re really serious about her, aren’t you?”_

Steve tapped the side of his glass with his finger.  _“I think I’m in love with her, Buck.”_

Bucky’s grin widened, if that was even possible.  _“You think you’re gonna marry her?”_

Steve gave his friend a look that was almost panic.  _“Marry? I don’t know. We’re not even really officially together yet — Ugh, I’m so bad at this.”_

 _“Do you_ want _to marry her?”_

_“I don’t know. Yes. I don’t know.”_

Bucky gripped Steve’s shoulder and looked him in the eye.  _“There’s no time to second-guess this stuff anymore, Stevie. The world’s gone to shit but you_ have _something. Don’t let this chance go, huh?”_

 _“Yeah. You’re right.”_  Steve took a swig of his drink.

Bucky did the same. When he swallowed, it was his turn to appear somewhat anxious.  _“You think…You think I’ll ever have that?”_

Steve chuckled, mostly in surprise.  _“What, a girl? You’ve never had trouble before.”_

_“I don’t mean…just a girl. What you have, with Peggy. Something more.”_

Steve tilted his head.  _“I never pegged you for commitment, Buck. What changed?”_

 _“I don’t know,”_ he said, sounding very much like his star-spangled friend just moments earlier.  _“Seeing all the bad out here… .I guess it would be nice, y’know, to settle down. Have some kids. Grow…old…with someone.”_

Steve smiled at him.  _“Look at you. All soft.”_

_“You’re a punk.”_

Steve grinned and clinked his glass with Bucky’s. Bucky rolled his eyes and brought the drink to his lips as he turned and leaned his back against the bar.

The drink stopped at his mouth, his eyes catching on something in the middle of the room that you couldn’t see. Slowly, he put the drink down on the bar behind him, never breaking his gaze from whatever had suddenly become so interesting.

“What are you looking at?” you asked your Bucky. “I can’t see.”

Bucky crossed his arms. “Knowing him, it’s probably a girl,” he said with a hint of an amused smile. You didn’t miss the way he said  _‘him’_  instead of  _‘me’_ , but you didn’t comment on it.

In the next second, Bucky, past Bucky, strode forward into the crowd, following whatever it was that he was staring at.

 _“Buck?”_  Steve called after him when he turned to find his friend was gone.

The memory

s

st

stu

 _stuttered_  for a moment, then

 

 

 

skipped — now Bucky was walking back to where Steve was still standing at the bar. Steve’s drink was empty, the only indicator of the time that had passed.

“What happened?” Bucky, your Bucky, asked you.

“The memory’s fragmented,” you explained. You pressed your pointer and middle finger to your temple. “Let me see if I can fix it, hang on.”

 _“So, what happened? Did you strike out?”_ Steve asked his friend, referencing whatever had just happened that you had missed.

Bucky, your Bucky, shook his head a little. “Told you,” he said. “It was a girl.”

But Bucky, past Bucky, just had this strange look on his face, like his head was up in the clouds somewhere. He sighed through his nose.  _“I’m gonna marry that girl.”_

“ _What_?” you exclaimed.

 _“_ What _?”_  Steve exclaimed a second later.  _“You were gone fifteen minutes!”_

 _“I know, I know,”_  Bucky said, shaking his head in disbelief.  _“But…I can’t stop thinking about her. She had to leave but she promised I was gonna see her again. And I just… .There’s something about her, Steve. Something different from any other girl I’ve ever met. I can’t explain it but…this is_ it _, Steve.”_

_“Buck, are you sure you’re not just rushing into this because of what you said before…?”_

_“Maybe, but so what if I am?”_  Bucky asked.  _“The whole world is crazy right now, and…you should’ve seen the way she looked at me, Stevie.”_

You were practically hanging on to every word as Bucky spoke about this mysterious woman. You turned to your Bucky then, to find him just as engrossed in what was happening as you were.

“Oh, my God!” you exclaimed, both surprised and pleased. “Who was this girl that you thought you were going to marry?”

Bucky’s eyebrows were knitted together in thought, and he shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“Give me a second,” you said, “I’ll try to fix the memory.”

The setting whipped and whirled, stuttered and skipped as you attempted to recover the pieces between the fracture.

“Okay…Okay I think I got it,” you said eventually, and the two of you watched again as Bucky walked forward into the crowd.

 _“Buck!”_  you heard Steve say for the second time around. This time, when the memory stuttered, you kept it from skipping ahead.

You managed to trail after Bucky through the crowd this time, trying to follow his line of sight — when he suddenly bumped into someone.

Well, it was more like someone bumped into  _him_ , as a woman accidentally tripped over her feet and into Bucky’s arms. He caught her, an arm around her shoulders and one hand on her waist. He grinned down at her; you still couldn’t see her face.

 _“Hi,”_  he said.

 _“Hi,”_  she breathed back to him, her voice fragile and soft.

Bucky brought her back on her feet, and you finally caught a glimpse of—

 

_No._

It couldn’t be.

_How—?_

The woman—

It was… _you_.

 

You pulled yourself out of Bucky’s memory quite abruptly, inching backward on the couch in shock.

Bucky turned around immediately, confusion written on his own face. “Was that—?”

You met his eyes. “It couldn’t be. That’s impossible.”

He rested his hands on the place just above your knees, still sitting between your legs. You could see the thoughts whirling and turning like gears behind his eyes. “Is it possible you had a grandmother who looked just like you? The way genetics work, it’s entirely possible—”

“I don’t know,” you said. “I wouldn’t know; I didn’t know my birth parents.” You rested your elbows on your legs, just above Bucky’s hands, and covered your face.

He gently squeezed the place above your knees in a silent, comforting gesture. “So I met someone you were related to. Or I met someone who just looked a lot like you. What was that statistic — that there’s seven other people in the world who look just like you?”

“I just…” You uncovered your face and met his eyes again. “It feels like it’s too much of a coincidence.”

“You’re worried,” Bucky mused, and his thumbs made circles on the inside of your legs.

You closed your eyes, breathing in, breathing out. You focused on Bucky’s comforting movements, then you looked at him again. “You and I are no strangers to being manipulated and used. I’m just… .Can you remember anything else about her? About what happened?”

He paused for a moment, thinking. “We danced for a little while. Talked. She was — she seemed…sad. But a lot of people were during the war. She  _did_  promise that I would see her again, but…even though I can’t completely remember all the days leading up to falling off that train, I know I never saw her again.”

You let go of a breath you didn’t know you were holding. You leaned back into the couch. “I’m sorry I’m being paranoid.”

“You’re not being paranoid; you’re being careful. I don’t blame you for that.”

You focused on the feeling of his thumbs stroking your legs for a moment before sighing softly. “…I’m sorry you didn’t get to fall in love and get married and start a family like you wanted to. I’m sorry you didn’t get to grow old with someone.”  _Not in the ‘40s; not when you should have_ , is what you didn’t say, or project, to him.

He broke eye contact with you briefly, the only proof of his regret, before patting your knee and standing. He held out his hand.

“Come on. We should get going.”

To the party. Right. You almost forgot.

You took his hand and let him pull you up, and you tried to forget about the woman in the ‘40s who looked so much like you.

 

* * *

 

You and Bucky had exactly one nice outfit each — at least, as nice as you could manage on a budget.

Bucky wore dark jeans and a tightly fitted button down (that you very much appreciated), and he wore a glove over his metal hand to avoid any suspicions. You yourself wore a pretty, flowy dress you got at the flea market.

“You look nice,” Bucky said, genuine, as he held the door open for you.

You gave him a small, almost shy, smile. “Thanks. So do you.”

The two of you walked the few floors down to your neighbour’s apartment. When you got there, Bucky held out his arm for you before knocking on the door. “Ready?”

You nodded, taking his arm, and he tapped his knuckles a couple times against the wood. Your neighbour and the host of the party, Cristina, opened the door.

“Y/N!” she said with a smile. “[So glad you and your husband could make it! Come in, come in!]”

That was the other thing. Living together with the opposite sex out of wedlock was becoming more accepted, but it was still somewhat taboo. The two of you would rather not attract any unnecessary attention to yourselves. Besides — living platonically together in a small apartment with only  _one bed_  was something that would be hard to explain even in your own culture. Pretending to be married was just easier.

The two of you spent the night talking with your neighbours and other party-goers, chatting about the past year and what the new year would bring. A few people wore cute, tacky 2016 glasses or drank from plastic 2016 champagne glasses.

You had a few glasses of champagne yourself, and a warm, slightly fuzzy feeling settled within you. You spent a fair amount of time curled into Bucky’s side, his arm wrapped around your waist.

Before long, midnight was approaching, and the new year with it. You joined in with the countdown as the day was ending.

“[Ten! Nine! Eight! Seven! Six! Five! Four!  _Three! Two! One! HAPPY NEW YEAR!_ ]” everyone cried. Some blew noise makers, but most kissed their significant other.

Happy and relaxed, you looked over at Bucky, who was watching the others with a content smile on his face.

 _Hey_ , you whispered to his mind, and he turned his face to you, raising an eyebrow slightly.

You twisted your body so you could look up at him, then slid your hand up his arm and shoulder to cup his jaw. Gently, tentatively, you pulled his mouth down to yours and pressed a soft kiss to his lips. His stubble tickled your face.

Bucky’s flesh arm tightened around your waist in response, his gloved hand smooth on your face as he brushed his thumb over your cheek.

You rested your head on his shoulder after pulling away, your lips still tingling.  _Happy New Year, Bucky_ , you said to him.

He pressed a kiss to your hair and murmured softly, “Happy New Year, Y/N.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I should mention (no spoilers) that the events of Endgame will not be taken account in the story. I had everything planned before the movie came out, so the story will continue the way I originally designed it.


	23. Part 2 - Chapter Twenty-Three: Record Players & Nicknames & Her Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s Valentine’s Day. You found an old record player at the flea market and decide to play old music to help Bucky remember.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I listened to “Dream a Little Dream of Me” while writing this and holy shit you guys I’m so soft rn this chapter is so soft

— ([x](http://fromdusks.tumblr.com/post/141565060450/do-you-understand-what-youve-done-you-have-90)) 

Bucky had stepped out of the apartment for some air after lunch, leaving Y/N to herself and whichever book she was reading at the moment. He was wandering down the street in no particular direction, just wanting to stretch his legs, when he walked past the florist shop on the corner.

Well, he  _almost_  walked past. He stopped when he noticed the sign  _‘VALENTINE’S DAY SPECIAL’_  in big, loopy letters, written in clear and plain Romanian.

He breathed out a puff of air that materialized into a white cloud in the cold. Was it really Valentine’s Day already? Bucky thought about last year’s Valentine’s Day — Y/N and him had completely skipped over it. Accidentally, of course; it happened to land the day after a particularly bad memory session. He didn’t even realize they’d missed it until suddenly it was February the 16th. He wondered if they would have done anything anyway even if they had remembered.

Before Bucky could contemplate what he was doing, he was entering the store.

 

* * *

 

There was music playing through the door as he walked up to the apartment. The song…it pulled on something deep down in his chest…a familiar feeling, almost melancholy but not quite.

When he walked into the apartment, he could hear Y/N humming along to the song, and he spotted the source of the music on the table.

A record player.

“Wait, wait, wait!” Y/N called out as she heard him enter, rushing to the record player to stop the music. She turned as she said, “It’s supposed to be a  _surprise_ —” and faltered, when she finally saw him. Her eyes blinked rapidly and her mouth parted slightly. A foreign feeling of…nervousness(?) washed over him as she looked at him with that mixture of surprise and…wonder.

He shut the door behind him, shifting the small bouquet of flowers in his hands as he walked over to her. “I remember you said these were your favourite,” he murmured, clearing his throat and mentally killing himself for the flush of heat he was feeling under his skin.

She shook her head, disbelief in her face as her eyes shuttered again, observing the bouquet. “ _Bucky_ ,” she breathed, and the way she said his name felt like…like the song he had just heard playing.

(Pulling on something he didn’t know was still there.)

“You didn’t have to… .” she continued, searching for words, and he swallowed. He shrugged.

“I wanted to,” he said, his voice a bit stronger this time. “I was thinking about it, and…I don’t know if we’re getting out of here any time soon. It’ll be two years in May. The longer we stay here…the longer it is before we can go back to anything normal.”  _Before you can go back to your life_ , is what he didn’t say. “And…someone like you deserves to get flowers on Valentine’s Day.”

She looked at him like…like he didn’t even know how to describe how. A tentative smile was fitting her lips and she gently took the bouquet from his hands. “They’re beautiful,” she said in a voice filled with awe…quiet, and small. She breathed in, then looked at him again.  _Thank you._ The voice in his head was louder than anything she could have said out loud.

She glanced down at the flowers once more and began walking into the kitchen. “I think we have a vase, somewhere.”

Bucky let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. He scratched the back of his head and cleared his throat again. “So, the record player?”

“Oh, right!” She quickly filled up the vase she found with water and set the flowers in it before addressing the old piece of technology on the table. She beamed at him as she gestured to it and to the records that he hadn’t noticed before. “I found it at the flea market yesterday. Took me a little bit to figure out how it worked, but—” She picked up the pile of records off the table. “I found all these songs from the forties — well, they’re not all from the forties, but they’re, y’know, old, and I just — I thought maybe it would help you to remember. Just hearing the music, I thought — I just — um —” She seemed somewhat frazzled,

 

(having been caught off guard by buying you  _flowers_  of all things, God, when was the last time someone had done something  _that nice_  for you—)

 

so he stepped in to help her.

“What was that song? Playing earlier?” he asked.

She smiled wide in response. Y/N turned and placed the needle back down on the record so the song could play from the beginning.

It was just instrumental at first, so he couldn’t tell what the song was, only that…he knew it.

Y/N leaned against the table, closing her eyes, humming along. Her finger tapped to the beat.

She opened her eyes a few moments later and smiled at him again. “I love this song.”

Before he could think too hard about it, Bucky reached out and offered her his hand.

She stared at it, at him, for a moment. She blinked owlishly a couple times, then smiled shyly at him and took his hand. (He made sure it was the flesh one.)

 

Bucky pulled you into his chest and rested his metal hand lightly on your waist. Your other arm curled around his shoulder reflexively, your fingers digging into his shirt a little.

_“Stars shining bright above you_

_Night breezes seem to whisper ‘I love you’_

_Birds singing in the sycamore tree_

_Dream a little dream of me”_

Your heart felt like it was going to beat out of your chest. You had never felt this nervous around Bucky before. And you thought, not for the first time, that you might drown in the blue of his eyes.

 

Familiarity grew into recognition as Bucky swayed gently with Y/N to the melody. In slow steps, he spun her outward, letting go of her waist but still keeping contact with her hand. “I know this song,” he murmured, and tugged on her to pull her back.

She twirled into his arms, and as soon as her back hit his chest

 

**_“Say ‘Night-ie night’ and kiss me_ **

**_Just hold me tight and tell me you’ll miss me_ **

**_While I’m alone and blue as can be_ **

**_Dream a little dream of me”_ **

 

 _the music blared louder in the dance hall they found themselves in than their small apartment — there was a rush of some kind of_ feeling _hitting him full force, deep within him — and the lights seemed brighter than ever._

_When he turned Y/N to face him again, she was in ‘40s attire — a dress, pretty and soft on her._

_**“Stars fading, but I linger on, dear** _

_**Still craving your kiss** _

_**I’m longing to linger ‘till dawn, dear** _

_**Just saying this”** _

__

_Bucky was…God,_ Bucky _…He was in his uniform, complete with short haircut and the hat…clean-shaven, lean…but his expression was one you recognized. It was_ him _, as he used to be, but also him as you knew him now._

_**“Sweet dreams till sunbeams find you** _

_**Sweet dreams that leave all worries behind you** _

_**But in your dreams whatever they be** _

_**Dream a little dream of me”** _

 

_It didn’t matter to him what this memory was, when it took place, what the context was supposed to be or who the girl was that he was supposed to be dancing with. As far as he was concerned, it was just him and Y/N._

_**“Stars fading, but I linger on, dear** _

_**Still craving your kiss** _

_**I’m longing to linger till dawn, dear** _

_**Just saying this”** _

__

_He dipped you slowly as the music interlude rang through the dance hall. When he brought you back up, you were even closer than before._

_**“Sweet dreams till sunbeams find you** _

_**Sweet dreams that leave all worries far behind you** _

_**But in your dreams whatever they be** _

_**Dream…a little dream…of me.”** _

 

_The song faded out, replaced by something else, something he knew he probably knew but in the moment didn’t recognize. Bucky found himself leaning to place his mouth next to Y/N’s ear, as if she wouldn’t be able to hear him over the band playing._

“Play the song again,”  _he asked her, and she smiled at him._

 _As soon as she left his arms,_  the memory disappeared and they were back in the apartment.

Y/N reset the song, then rejoined him as the instrumental began. He pulled on her hand, spinning her and  _dipping her back into the memory._

_She laughed softly and let him pull her back up. Then she rested her head on his chest, right over his heart, and he hoped she couldn’t hear it pounding._

_A sudden stab of guilt went through him,_  causing the memory to stutter for a moment,  _then resume. She looked up at him, confusion written over her features._

 _He continued to sway with her to the melody of the song._  “What would you be doing today? If you were back home?”  _A remnant from his old life, from the man he used to be, here in this memory, bubbled up for a moment to add,_  “Pretty girl like you. I bet you’d be on a hot date.”

 

 _Those words coming out of the mouth of Bucky who looked like ‘40s Bucky but whose mind was your Bucky caused a flush of heat to creep into your cheeks. But you could see him cringing every so slightly once the words had left his mouth; you knew he didn’t mean to say it like that. You smiled a bit to yourself, then shook your head._  “No. Don’t get me wrong; I love Valentine’s Day. But I don’t like spending it with someone I’ve only been dating for a little while, and definitely not someone I just met. Valentine’s Day is supposed to be… _special_? I don’t know, I guess that’s cheesy. But…there was only ever one person that I dated that I was close enough to to celebrate with. So, to answer your question: If I was back home I’d probably be treating it like any other day. Except probably with more chocolate.”  _You lifted your head and gave him a teasing grin at that._

_Bucky considered what she said for a moment._  “The person that you celebrated Valentine’s Day with. Is this the same person that knew everything about you? The only person you said you trusted with everything?”  _he asked, in a tone meant to be curious and not passive-aggressive._

 _The memory_  stuttered again, this time on her end, before _continuing. She was giving him a strange look._  “Yeah… .”  _she said slowly, then blinked a couple times to remove her confused expression._  “But, I mean…they only really knew  _everything_  everything because we grew up together. We were both telepaths, our parents were in the Hellfire Club together…there was no keeping secrets from…them. I didn’t voluntarily give up what I would have rather had stayed hidden.” The music was quieter, now. “It was easier, for a while, I guess…to be with someone who knew everything about me. Who I didn’t have to hide anything from.” She took a deep breath. “But that’s the thing, I still hid things from them. Not anything concrete, just…how I was feeling. How I felt about…all of it. I closed myself off.” She shrugged, her expression…sad.

Bucky continued to sway with her, even know the memory had been gone for a while now. “So you’ve never had anyone you’ve actually trusted enough to tell everything to?”

Her frown deepened somewhat, and he could feel her guilt leaking from her mind into his through their bond. “I trust  _you_ ,” she said, in a voice that was very quiet— and very loud. “I just—”

“I know,” he interrupted her in a casual tone, hoping to lessen the pain he knew that she was feeling. “It’s okay.”

She rested her head back on his chest, letting him sway her. She closed her eyes for a moment, as if she was letting the music wash over her, wash away things she didn’t want to think about right now.

A smile crept onto Y/N’s face and she looked up at him. “Did you really call people ‘Doll’ in the forties? Was that really a thing?”

He chuckled and nodded. She lifted her head.

“ _Jeez_. That sounds so  _condescending_.  _‘Doll’_ ,” she repeated the word in a ‘40s-like accent, like she was tasting it in her mouth. “…Although,” she met his eyes, “I could see how  _you_  got away with it. If you called me that, I don’t think I’d mind as much. It’d be more like…a term of endearment.”

As he was listening to her talk, he was losing himself in her. In her voice, in her eyes, in the way her mind felt, wrapped around his. And suddenly he came to the most terrifying realization of his current life.

 

You blinked at Bucky as he stayed silent, just staring at you. You began to feel self-conscious as his eyes studied you.

“What?” you ventured.

The Winter Soldier: a man with over twelve confirmed assassinations, who knew how to kill in a myriad of ways and who had  _killed_  in a myriad of ways and who had  _hurt_  people…and yet… .His gaze was indescribably soft as he looked at you. His blue poured into you in a way it had never had before.

“I’m really glad I met you, Doll.”

 

Her lips parted and she breathed in, deep and slow. Then she smiled at him, tentatively, shyly. Her eyes were filling with tears, and he swallowed, wishing for a moment he could take it back —

But then her smile was like the sun, and  _Jesus Christ_.

 

He was in love with her.

He was so,  _so_  in love with her.

 

 

 

He was so  _fucked_. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: We finally get a love realization!! I loved writing this chapter so much, you have no idea. We haven’t seen a lot of Bucky’s side of things, so I hope this didn’t seem too rushed on his side. Hope you guys enjoyed this chapter!!! Two more chapters left until Part 3 and the present time!


	24. Part 2 - Chapter Twenty-Four: The Tattoo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You were invited to have dinner with your neighbour and her husband, so you and Bucky attempt to make a cake. Later, Bucky asks to see your tattoo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Holy shit okay, this chapter got long. Like it’s almost twice as long as a regular chapter. This chapter is really important to me, because it contains some stuff that I literally planned nine months ago. That’s crazy. So I hope you enjoy this one, because I worked really hard on it and this particular one means a lot to me.

“Don’t forget, we’re having dinner at Mrs. Miklos’s tonight,” you reminded Bucky as you rinsed dishes from lunch. **  
**

He looked up at you from where he was writing in his journal. “Did you want to bring something?”

You dried your hands and leaned your elbows on the table with your chin resting in your hands so you could face him. “I was thinking we could bring dessert. Make a cake?”

He closed his journal and mirrored you by resting his cheek into his flesh hand. “Do you have a recipe in mind?”

You shrugged and smiled. “Whatever cake mix I can find at the store, I guess.”

Bucky hummed and his eyes wandered in that way they did whenever he was thinking about something. It was a moment before he said, “You know my mom used to make cake from scratch.”

Your eyebrows rose and you blinked a couple times. Your voice took on a quality of wonder. “Really?”

He nodded, standing. Subconsciously, you mirrored his movements and stood up straight. He went to put his journal away. “Yeah. I used to help her make it, actually,” Bucky added as he leisurely made his way back over to you.

“I can’t believe you remember that. That’s amazing, Bucky.” You thought for a second, biting your bottom lip. “Do you remember the recipe?”

His eyes wandered away from you as he thought about it. “. . .Yeah, I think so.”

You smiled at him. “Then that’s what we should make.”

Bucky’s eyebrows rose. “You want to make a cake from scratch?”

“I want to make  _your_  cake from scratch,” you said. “The Barnes’ Family Secret Recipe.”

An amused smile made its way onto his face. “I don’t know if it was a secret, but. . .Alright, if you want to.”

 

(How the fuck was he supposed to say no when she smiled at him like that?)

 

* * *

 

It didn’t take long for the two of you to go to the store and amass the set of ingredients you’d need for the recipe.

It took longer than it would have if you had gotten pre-made cake mix, but eventually the two of you managed to make the batter, and the only step left was to put it in a cake pan and bake it.

You read and reread Bucky’s recipe that he had written down on a slip of paper, your eyes narrowing. “Did we miss a step? Hang on, try this—” You took the stirring spoon with residue batter and moved it in the direction of Bucky’s mouth for him to try. Only you were still looking at the instructions when you did so, and the batter was promptly smeared onto the corner of Bucky’s mouth and across his cheek.

As soon as you realized what you’d done, you put the spoon back in the bowl and covered your mouth. You stifled the smile that was pulling at your mouth. “Oh! Sorry!”

You pressed your lips together to keep from laughing as Bucky gave you a look. “You think that’s funny, do you?” he said with thinly veiled amusement.

You shook your head, your hand still over your mouth in an effort to conceal that yes, it was pretty funny. “No, not at all.”

“Mmmhmm,” was his response, and you watched as his flesh hand dipped into the bowl, then wiped a streak of batter down your face.

You gasped in disbelief and let your mouth hang open for a second before giving him a challenging look.

You flicked a handful of flour into his face and watched his eyes squint shut. He blew out a puff of the white powder, and a small, sly smile laced itself onto his lips.

_Oh, it’s on now, Doll._

You shook your head, a gesture of warning, as he reached for the eggs. “No,” you said, inching backwards. “Bucky, no,  _no_ —” He ignored your protests as he caught your waist. “— _NononononoNONONO_!”

You  _shrieked_  as he splattered an egg onto your head, and you reached your hand into the batter, smearing more of the goop onto his face. He did the same, and as you were going for your second handful, your foot slipped on one of the various ingredients now littering the floor. As he was still holding your waist, you managed to pull Bucky down with you—

—and the bowl, which landed batter-first onto his head.

You couldn’t stop  _laughing_ , even as the batter managed to splatter you as well, even as you were covered in egg and flour and a metal-armed man, who laid on top of you.

Your laughing subsided into uncontrollable fits of giggling and you attempted to wipe away the mess on Bucky’s face. You swiped your fingers into his batter-coated hair and tasted the contents.

“Mmm, that’s really good,” you decided. “Too bad we’ll have to buy a cake from the store now.”

Despite the predicament, Bucky was grinning at you. “And whose fault is that, huh?”

You gaped at him in a mock look of anger. “I hope you’re not insinuating that  _I_  started this.”

He chuckled.

You gathered more of the batter from the side of his face onto your fingers, planning on tasting more of it, when Bucky gently caught your wrist. Carefully, he closed his mouth over one of your fingers. You could feel his tongue swirl over your skin, the slight scrape of teeth, and the pressure as he tasted the batter off of your finger. The inside of his mouth was warm and wet and the intimacy of it was honestly making your skin flush with heat.

 

What the  _fuck_  was he  _doing_.

He knew he was crossing some sort of line right now and yet, somehow, he wasn’t stopping himself.

He was an  _idiot_. He needed to be more careful than this; he needed to be more careful around her.

But ever since he realized a few months back that he was in love with her, it was like all common sense had gone out the window. He was just perpetually caught in a haze of  _her_. Just her.

He pulled her finger from his mouth and cleared his throat after swallowing. “You’re right. Tastes good.”

He was not going to be the type of guy to force her into this; he was not going to be the guy to push her. He understood what kind of situation they were in right now. He understood that they didn’t have the kind of flexibility that lets one person leave if they want to. He wouldn’t trap her like this. He wouldn’t—

Bucky’s internal monologuing ceased as Y/N’s hand — the same hand he had just been holding on to — cupped his cheek and her thumb slowly, gently, swiped over his lips. Batter gathered onto her skin, then she pulled her hand back and tasted it off her thumb.

It was a soft gesture. Comfortable. Intimate, but in a different way than Bucky’s gesture was intimate.

Some of the tension in his shoulders released somewhat.

 

You could feel his mind whirring. You didn’t press to see what he was thinking about — you would never invade his privacy like that — but you could tell he was worried he’d done something wrong, for some reason.

Mimicking Bucky’s gesture had been natural, almost instinctual, and for a moment you wondered when you had become this comfortable with him. You wondered if it was a bad thing.

You decided it wasn’t.

You smiled and took the bowl off of his head, setting it down on the floor next to you. “You should probably get cleaned up before we leave. You’ve got a little. . .” You gestured to his hair, and he smiled back at you while shaking his head.

“Next time the cake doesn’t end up on the floor,” he declared, and you nodded in agreement.

Bucky somehow managed to stand, and he held out his hand for you. When you grasped his palm, he used barely any effort to pull you up.

“Go take a shower,” you told him, starting to wipe batter and egg yolk from your face, “and then you can go out and get a replacement cake.”

He began walking backwards toward the bathroom. “Why do  _I_  have to get the cake?”

“ _Because_ ,” you drew out, “ _you_  started it.”

He grinned and shook his head again, finally turning around and disappearing into the bathroom.

 

* * *

 

“Bucky! Y/N! [Come in! Come in!]” Mrs. Mikalos greeted the two of you warmly at her door. She disappeared inside, and you followed her into her apartment. “ _Andrei_!” she yelled her husband’s name. “[Bucky and Y/N are here!]”

Mr. Mikalos made his way into the front hall, grinning widely. He embraced Bucky and clapped him on the back, then gently took your hand and kissed your cheek.

“[How are you, Mr. Mikalos?]” you asked him.

“[Fantastic as always, my dear. Please, let me take that],” he said, gesturing to the cake in Bucky’s hands.

Bucky handed it over, and Mr. Mikalos took it to the kitchen. The two of you followed him and sat at the dining table across from each other. Dinner had been prepared and was set on the table.

“[Looks delicious, Mrs. Mikalos],” Bucky commented. She walked over and patted his cheek, smiling.

She took the cake from her husband and set it aside for later. “[Did you make this yourself?]”

“[Store-bought, I’m afraid],” you told her. “[There was a. . .mishap while we were baking.]” Your eyes slid to Bucky to find him already looking at you, amusement flitting from his mind to yours.

Mrs. Mikalos chuckled. She patted her husband’s shoulders as he sat down. “[Remember when we were that young and had our heads so far up in the sky? Too in love to get anything done.]”

Your cheeks heated slightly at her assumption, but as far as she was aware, you and Bucky were married, so you couldn’t exactly fault her for the comment.

“[As far as I am concerned, we are still young and in love],  _iubita mea_ ,” Mr. Mikalos said, kissing the hand of his wife.

 _My beloved_ , your telepathy translated. You wondered for a brief moment if you would ever have something like that — growing old together with someone you loved.

And you wondered, not for the first time, how long you and Bucky would be staying together. And what that would mean for the two of you.

Mrs. Miklos huffed in exasperation, but a smile was on her face as she sat down. “[Delusional old man],” she lovingly chided him.

The four of you proceeded with idle chit-chat as you ate.

“[The food is delicious, Mrs. Mikalos],” Bucky commented and you nodded enthusiastically.

“[Thank you, Bucky],” she said, beaming. “[So],” she went on, “[I never asked how the two of you met.]”

You swallowed your food harshly, your eyes sliding over to where Bucky was sitting across from you.

He arched an eyebrow at you.  _How do you want to handle this?_

_Well. . .lying is always easiest when it has a base in reality. . . .Okay, okay, I think I’ve got something._

“[Kind of a crazy story, actually],” you began, setting down your fork. “[. . .I was in a car accident.]

 

_Your body was jolted forward as a black van rammed into the back of the car, propelling it on until the car hit the Soldier and he flew up and onto it. Sam desperately hit the brakes but the van was stronger. You made yourself small in the backseat, you mind going into overdrive._

 

“[Bucky was. . .passing by when it happened.]

 

 _You_ screamed _when the Soldier smashed his arm into the windshield and pulled the steering wheel right out of Sam’s hands. Natasha shot at him and he jumped onto the van behind you. The car, without a steering wheel, began spinning out of control._

 

“[He pulled me out of the car. . .]

 

_You shrieked as the Winter Soldier pulled you to him, locking you in place against his chest with his metal arm and began dragging you down the street._

 

“[. . .practically saved my life.]

 

 _“_ STEVE _!” you cried, absolutely desperate. Tears were blurring your vision and you fought the Soldier’s hold. “_ STEVE — PLEASE — H E L P _” you screamed at the top of your lungs._

 

“[He took me to the hospital],

 

_The world was fuzzy when you finally came to consciousness. . . .You were in some sort of containment room, that much you could tell. . . .A group of people were standing in the centre of the room, around what appeared to be some sort of technological contraption with screens and buttons — in the middle was a chair, and in that chair was a man._

 

“[and stayed with me until I woke up],

 

 _“Please,_ help me _, and I can help you.”_

_He almost seemed to consider it for a moment, his eyes searching yours through the glass. But then, wordlessly, he removed his hand from the surface and kept walking on._

 

“[until the doctor said I could leave.]

 

_His name was Alexander Pierce. He was a senior officer at S.H.I.E.L.D. He was also a Hydra double-agent. . . ._

_Some of the men shot themselves; some shot each other. They died either way, bleeding pools onto the smooth floor. You stepped out of the cell. Blood seeped into your shoes as you walked over the bodies and made your way out._

 

[“And we’ve been together ever since],” you finished. Hesitantly, you risked a glance over to Bucky. He looked. . .concerned. Guilty, even.

His hand grasped for yours under the table, giving it a gentle squeeze.

 _I’m sorry_ , his mind whispered to yours.

 _Don’t_ , you whispered back, putting weight into the thought.

“[Well, I would expect nothing less from the man who helped me carry up my groceries before he even knew my name],” Mrs. Mikalos said.

You still had your eyes on Bucky. You squeezed his hand back.  _Stop being sorry. I’m not sorry._  “[He did more than save my life that day],” you started, turning your attention back to Mr. and Mrs. Mikalos. “[I’ve. . .never gotten along with my family. They’re not exactly the best of people. But. . .I don’t need them anymore.]” You looked at Bucky, met those blue eyes of his. “[Because he’s my family now.]”

He gave you a small smile, and you felt his hand tighten around yours. “[You’re my family, too], Doll.”

 

Her smile was like pure light as he said the nickname in English, the term of endearment that had come to mean three little words that he couldn’t say aloud.

“[You are very lucky to have this beautiful girl in your life, my boy],” Mr. Mikalos commented. Y/N looked down with a shy smile, but Bucky’s eyes didn’t leave her face.

“[Yeah],” he said. “[I am.]”

She glanced back up at him then, her smile gone but her eyes conveying a sort of meaningful emotion that he couldn’t explain, only feel, deep in his chest.

 

The conversation moved on to other things. Dinner ended and dessert began — the store-bought cake wasn’t half bad, but you honestly would have preferred Bucky’s mother’s recipe.

 _Next time_ , Bucky’s voice echoed in your mind as he nudged your foot with his.

 _As long as we can manage to keep the cake in the bowl and not, y’know, everywhere else_ , you thought to him with amusement.

Bucky gave you a sly smile.  _No promises._

Heat rose to your cheeks in surprise at the implication in his tone.

“[Y/N?]” Mrs. Mikalos said, and from her tone it sounded like she was repeating your name. You blinked and looked over at her, the heat under your skin deepening and spreading to the tips of your ears in embarrassment.

“[Sorry, Mrs. Mikalos],” you apologised. “[Can you repeat that?]”

You could see Bucky covering up a smile with his hand from the corner of your eye.  _Stop distracting me_ , you shot at him.

_But it’s so fun to do._

Mr. Mikalos bellowed a laugh and clapped Bucky on the shoulder. “[She got lost in your eyes, my boy!]”

Sometimes you forgot how telepathic conversations looked to other people. As far as they were aware, you were staring at him without speaking for several moments and not paying any attention to the current conversation. There weren’t a lot of plausible excuses you could make up for this one.

“[Well],” you said, giving Bucky a smile, “[he does have the most beautiful blue eyes I’ve ever seen.”]

It was Bucky’s turn to blush, the slightest shade of pink tinting his cheeks as the muscle in his jaw flexed.

“[I was asking you if there is anything new in your life, Y/N],” Mrs. Mikalos repeated for you.

“[Well, actually. . . .]” You glanced back at Bucky. “[I was going to wait to tell you, but. . .I applied for a job yesterday.]”

Bucky’s eyebrows rose. “[You did?]”

You nodded. “[They were looking for a translator a few streets down. . .and I thought, well. . .]”  _It’ll be two years next week that we’ve been here_ , you told him silently. _I’ve been starting to think about. . .the long term._  “[. . .that it would be good.]”

Bucky nodded, slowly, his mind whirring behind his eyes.

“[I didn’t know you were a translator, Y/N],” Mr. Mikalos commented. “[How many languages do you speak?]”

You glanced at Bucky, giving him a secret smile before turning your attention back to your host. “[I’ll give you three guesses.]”

 

* * *

 

“You want to watch a movie?” you asked Bucky as you entered your apartment, taking off your shoes.

“Sure.”

You wanted to change into your pajamas first, though, and get out of the dress you were wearing. You looked at Bucky over your shoulder. “Can you unzip me?”

He nodded and walked over to you. You turned your head back and could feel the cool metal of his hand touch your shoulder through the fabric. He grasped the zipper with his flesh hand and pulled it down, slowly.

His thumb brushed the bare skin of your back, once, twice, and you found yourself lingering just a moment too long.

You pulled away and threw a “Thanks” over your shoulder to him. You gathered your pajamas in hand and was about to change in the bathroom when his voice stopped you.

“Can I see your tattoo?”

You froze, then turned around hesitantly.

“I’ve just never seen all of it before,” Bucky clarified. “Not up close. I won’t — I won’t ask any questions about it, I promise. I just want to see it.”

You swallowed, suddenly very nervous.

He took in your expression and began backtracking. “If you really don’t want to, it’s alright, I—”

“Okay.”

He blinked a couple times at you. You took a deep breath, then slipped the sleeves of the dress off your shoulders, letting the outfit fall and pool at your feet. You stepped out of it, walking a few paces closer to him, then you turned around.

Slowly, your heart pounding in your chest, you unclipped your bra and slid it off your arms, tossing it to the floor.

You heard Bucky take a few steps forward until you could feel him at your back. You could sense his own hesitation — then, very lightly, his flesh hand touched the skin of your tattoo.

You tensed, then relaxed. You trusted Bucky. You trusted him more than you had ever trusted anyone in your life.

His metal hand joined his other, tracing the edges and design of the firebird that adorned your back. His hands moved up to your shoulders, and you found yourself lifting your arms so he could experience the entire thing.

His fingers skimmed the wings that continued across the sides of your arms, the tattoo growing smaller and smaller until it reached the tips of your pinky fingers. He went on until the end, cupping your hands with his briefly before moving back to your wrists, to the double bands that encircled each. He stopped there for a moment, rubbing circles with his thumbs into the black ink.

“It’s beautiful,” Bucky murmured, his voice, although quiet, breaking the heavy silence of the room. His hands traveled back to your shoulders, the thumb of his flesh hand brushing over the bird’s head at the base of your neck.

“It’s more trouble than it’s worth,” you whispered back. “Trust me.”

You heard his swallow, and his hands continued down your back, then brushed your sides. You inhaled sharply at the sensitive sensation, then you realized what he was doing.

Bucky was tracing the scars on your sides, the lines ranging from short to long, small to large.

He brushed a few scars on your hips, then on the outside of your thighs, then traveled back up, tracing the raised lines on your abdomen.

With every scar, with every gentle touch and stroke, a memory appeared along with it. Memories of how you got each and every one of them, memories of pain and the torture you experienced — you projected the images to him, so he could see, so he could feel each of them as his hands moved carefully along your skin.

You’re not sure when you started crying, only that tears flowed down your cheeks in steady streams. He was quietly undoing you, undoing the pain and the violence and the horror that had been committed against you.

His flesh hand grazed the underside of your breast, while his metal hand traced the valley between, then went over your breastbone, your collarbone, your neck — the cool temperature of his fingers soothing the raised lines on your skin.

When his hands returned to your back, you used the arm of your nondominant hand to cover yourself up before turning to face him.

He had been crying, too, his face glistening with tear tracks and his eyes still half-full with liquid. In his face was a myriad of emotions — pain and anguish and concern and something like  _anger_. Not anger directed  _at_  you, but  _for_  you; anger directed against the people who had done this to you.

You rested your dominant hand square in the middle of his chest, looking up at him. Your mind whispered to his, but not in any words.

_Let me see._

_Let me see._

Bucky raised his arms and pulled his shirt over his head, tossing it aside. Your eyes went over the expanse of his bare skin, and softly, gently, you reached out and touched him.

You traced the scars he had there, on his chest, on his abdomen.

Like you had done with him, Bucky showed you the story behind each and every one.

You ran your fingers over a circular scar on his right shoulder, a familiar memory running through your mind — the day the two of you had gone swimming, when Hydra soldiers had ambushed you and shot Bucky. You saw the event as  _he_  had seen it, what you had looked like, hanging half-conscious but  _struggling_  in the soldier’s arms, trying to get to him. You felt the event as  _he_  had felt it, the pain and the  _fear_ , not for himself but for  _you_.

The entire time Bucky watched you, watched as your hand moved to the scars on his left shoulder where the metal met his skin.

More tears left your eyes as you re-experienced the memory and the pain that you had so intimately felt with him, the first time you had unearthed this part of his life.

You moved closer to him, pressing your body and the arm that covered your breasts against his chest as you let your hand travel around his side to his back. Blindly, you walked your fingers up and down in an attempt to find the torn flesh, the raised lines of the scars there.

And you felt your own version of pain and anguish and concern. You felt your own version of  _anger_  towards those who had hurt him, towards those who had made him hurt others.

You pulled your hand back to trace his collarbone, and you finally returned your eyes to his.

Bucky’s flesh hand cupped your cheek and his thumb gently wiped away the tears still flowing there.

You wouldn’t be able to describe to any normal person what this felt like. Your mind intertwined with his, both your body and your memories open and vulnerable to each other, it was nothing like anything you had ever experienced before. To show him the worst parts of you — the torture, the uncontrolled and unrestrained responses of blood and death toward people who had hurt you — to have him show you the worst parts of himself — the assassinations, the pain and murder he had caused — it was to give yourself over to him, to have him give himself over to you.

 

_We’re the same._

_We’re the same._

_You and me._

_You_

_and_

_me._

_We’re the same._

He continued to stroke your cheek, his metal hand now resting on your hip, his thumb brushing over a scar just above the fabric of your underwear.

And in that moment, you wanted to tell him the truth. About everything, about all of it. All the things you couldn’t tell him before, because you were  _scared_ , because you were afraid of the consequences, because a part of you was afraid that it would change the way he looked at you — you want him to know all of that, now.

“ _Bucky_ —” you breathed, but he shushed you softly, as if he knew what you were going to say and he decided it could wait. His hand slid to cup the base of your head, and he began leaning down, slowly, hesitantly.

You found your eyes drifting down to his lips, and your breath hitched, waiting for him to—

 

There was a knock at the door.

Bucky inhaled sharply, straightening and looking to the source of the noise. His flesh hand fell to your shoulder, his thumb absentmindedly stroking your skin as he looked like he was trying to decide whether to answer it.

“Bucky! Y/N! [It’s Mrs. Mikalos! You forgot your leftovers!]” the voice called through the door.

Bucky sighed and turned his gaze back to you, the muscle in his jaw flexing. “You should probably. . .”

You nodded and stepped away from him, feeling the absence of his warmth, the absence of  _him_ , as soon as you did. You watched Bucky slide on his shirt as you picked up your clothes and headed to the bathroom.

You closed the door.

And exhaled.


	25. Part 2 - Chapter Twenty-Five: The Train Station

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The past finally catches up with you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *A couple of sentences have been added to this chapter because I forgot them originally and I thought they were important enough to include even after I’d already published this one. The additions are bolded.

He could watch her sleep for the rest of his life. **  
**

It’s not the first time he’s thought that. Lying beside her, listening to her breathing and memorizing the lines of her face, Bucky had never felt more at peace. And not the temporary kind of peace — long-lasting peace, the kind of peace that you don’t have to worry about slipping through your fingers.

He had come so close to kissing her last night. The intimacy he felt with her…running his hands over her tattoos, over her scars…letting her do the same…feeling her pain and showing her his… .He had never felt that close to someone — had never felt that vulnerable.

Bucky gently traced the curve of her cheek with his metal hand. She hummed softly, but didn’t wake.

 

He was so goddamn in love with her.

 

As much as it pained him to do it, Bucky had to get up and ready for the day. He went through his normal routine of exercising and going for a run. But he cut the run short to take a shower and get dressed early — he wanted to go to the market before Y/N could wake up.

 

* * *

 

 

“[How much?]” Bucky asked the vendor, testing the firmness of the plums with his gloved metal hand.

She gave him a price and he swapped a few more words with her before handing her the money and taking the bag of plums. He thanked the vendor, then began heading back to the apartment. He was waiting to cross the street when his instincts began poking at him.

 _Look. Look. Something isn’t right_ , they said to him.

Across the street, a newspaper vendor made eye contact with him once, twice, three times. He looked down at the table after every glance.

Growing increasingly wary, Bucky watched for cars and walked across the street, hurrying over to the newspaper stand. When he got there, he grabbed the newspaper that the vendor had been looking at.

His heart leapt into his throat.

He had to get back to the apartment.  _Now_.

 

* * *

 

 

Bucky was gone when you woke up, but that wasn’t unusual. Sometimes he took longer runs if he needed to think.

A nervous feeling fluttered in your chest. Did he need to think about last night?

_What’s there to think about? Nothing happened._

You sat up in bed and bit your lip. Did  _you_  need to think about last night?

You attempted to rub the sleep from your eyes. It was too early for this. You got up and turned on the TV, letting the news drown out your thoughts as you brewed a cup of coffee.

_“[…In other news, the King of Wakanda was killed in a terrorist attack in Vienna. Sources say the person responsible is—]”_

You switched off the TV after finishing your coffee. You needed to take a shower, needed to let the hot water clear your head.

 

The shower squeaked as you turned it off. You took a towel to your skin, drying yourself, then paused.

You observed your clouded form in the steam-covered mirror. Using the towel, you wiped away the moisture so you could see yourself clearly.

Carefully, you ran your fingers over a few raised scars, then over the ink of your tattoo. You imagined Bucky’s hands, tracing where you were tracing, washing away violence with gentleness and…and… .

_Oh, my God._

He was going to kiss you. You think he would have, had Mrs. Mikalos not interrupted.

He would’ve kissed you.

Bucky would’ve kissed you.

The memory stirred a feeling in your chest. A feeling you didn’t dare put a name to. After all, it was Bucky.

But…It was  _Bucky_.

A noise outside the bathroom startled you out of your revelations. You reached for your clothes to get dressed and finally face him—

 _Shit_. You had accidentally grabbed his shirt and pants instead of your own. You quickly put on your underwear, then slipped Bucky’s shirt over your head.

_It smells like him._

That decided it. You needed to talk to him about what happened last night.

You opened the bathroom door and stepped out.

“Hey, Bucky, I—”

 

You froze.

 

Steve Rogers, or rather,  _Captain America_ , stood across the room in full attire, the shield at his side. Bucky was facing him. He turned to look at you when you spoke.

Steve’s surprise at seeing you was short lived, as he pressed his lips together and sighed through his nose. “So this is where you’ve been, huh?”

Your face heated, part in shame at the lies you told him — and partially because of how this must have looked to him.

(You were living with Bucky. And you were wearing his shirt. And you weren’t wearing any pants.)

Steve sighed again. “Well, at least now I know that you were okay.”

 _“They’re on the roof — I’m compromised,”_  a voice crackled from somewhere on Steve’s person.

You glanced to Bucky, your eyebrows knitting together.  _What’s going on?_

The muscle in his jaw flexed. _They think it was me. The terrorist attack in Vienna. They think I did it._

“What?” you said aloud, your eyes snapping to Steve. “Bucky wasn’t in Vienna — he didn’t do anything wrong; he doesn’t do that anymore. He’s been with me this entire time, he  _didn’t do it_.”

Steve’s confusion over the silent portion of the conversation lasted only a moment. “But the people coming for him think that he did. And I don’t think they’re going to be open to a conversation right now.”

 _They’re not here to arrest me_ , Bucky added, letting you fill in the blanks for yourself.

Swallowing, you quickly found a pair of your own pants, pulled them on, then grabbed your emergency getaway bag. (You managed to snag the star necklace Bucky had given you for your first Christmas, too.)

“Tell us how we get out of this,” you said, directing the question to Steve.

“We don’t,” Bucky said, and your eyes found his again, brows furrowing.

“This doesn’t have to end in a fight, Buck,” Steve murmured.

You continued staring at Bucky, his eyes not meeting your anymore. He removed the glove from his metal hand.

“It always ends in a fight.”

He finally looked up at you, and you could see a conflict brewing behind his eyes. He swallowed, then closed the gap between the two of you.

“I’m not going to make you a part of this. I know you, and I know you’re not going to fight back. And I’m not going to put you in any situation where you might  _have_  to.” An image flitted from his mind to yours, an image of glowing violet eyes, and uncontrollable rage, and  _blood blood blood blood blood_.

 _“Thirty seconds,”_  the voice crackled. (Sam Wilson, it was  _Sam Wilson’s_  voice.)

“They’re looking for me; they’re not looking for you,” Bucky continued, and you began to hear the hurt in his voice. “You stay here, you use your telepathy and you  _hide_. You meet me at the train station—”

“ _No_ ,” you interrupted, shaking your head.  _I’m not leaving you._

“ _You meet me at the train station_ ,” Bucky repeated. He gripped your upper arms with his hands. He swallowed again, the muscle in his jaw working overtime.  _I may not understand why, but I understand how dangerous it is for you to get caught._  “They are coming to kill me, do you understand? They may not think twice about killing an accomplice.”

You couldn’t stop the tears that were suddenly filling your eyes. “Don’t make me.  _Please_ ,” you whispered, your voice broken.

His grip on you tightened.  _You will kill all of these men. And I’m not going to let that happen because I know it will_  kill you _._

Tears poured down your cheeks and you looked away, the guilt and grief and fear beginning to consume you.

“Look at me,” he whispered, and his voice was just as broken as yours was. “I’m going to see you again, alright? I promise.”

_“Five seconds.”_

Bucky pressed a kiss to your forehead and you closed your eyes. Then he cupped your cheek and you looked into his blue once more.

 

(He wouldn’t say it. The words. He wouldn’t tell her the words that he had been harbouring so close to his heart these past months. Those three words that have  _ached_  and  _pleaded_  to be said. Because to say the words would be to admit that this might be his last chance. To say the words would be to admit that he might never see her again.

He would not say those words. Not here. Not now. **So, instead, he whispered —** )

 

 **“See you soon, Doll.”**  

_“Three seconds.”_

“ _Hide_.  _Now_.”

You cast out your telepathy, shielding your presence from any mind in the room.

“You pulled me from the river,” came Steve’s voice as you backed away to the edge of the apartment. “Why?”

Bucky breathed. “Because you’re my friend.”

You slipped into the bathroom and shut the door, sliding down against the wall and covering your ears. You pressed your hands harder against them as you began to hear crashes and  _explosions_  and gunfire.

The sob that escaped your throat would not be heard in the middle of all the commotion.

_He’ll be okay. He’ll be okay. He’ll be okay._

You had to tell yourself that. Or you were going to lose control.

You felt Bucky stray further and further from where you could sense him. At some point your stomach leapt into your throat, as if you were falling from a height. You felt the impact in your joints, of a harsh landing after jumping.

( _Of course_  Bucky jumped out a window instead of taking the stairs.  _Of course_  he did that.)

When you couldn’t feel him close any longer, you sprang from the bathroom and ran out the door (which had been completely knocked off its hinges), backpack in hand. You carefully maneuvered around debris and groaning, injured soldiers as you made your way down the stairs.

When you left the building, you ran a couple of blocks before letting your telepathic invisibility drop, the shield becoming more complicated to create as you raced through thick crowds of people.

You ran until your lungs burned. You ran until your lungs  _screamed_  for relief. You ran from your fear and you ran from the things you could not control and you ran—

You ran  _toward_  Bucky. You ran toward the train station.

_He’ll be there._

_He’ll be there._

_He’s okay._

_He’s an assassin, right? He knows how to take care of himself. He’ll be okay. He’ll be there._

 

* * *

 

 

You had to catch your breath before entering the train station; you needed to do everything you could to not attract suspicion.

You walked inside, as normal as you could manage, and sat down in the seats near the ticket booth and the schedule board. You ran your hand through your still-damp hair. You were still wearing Bucky’s shirt.

He wasn’t there yet. You couldn’t feel him.

You waited.

 

Half an hour passed.

 

Then an hour.

 

Then two.

 

Bucky asked a promise of you. He asked you to get on the train. With him, or  _without_  him.

You couldn’t stop the shaking sobs that hit you suddenly.

One minute you had been with him. Tracing his scars. Sleeping next to him. Looking into the blue of his eyes and seeing yourself reflected in them, in him. And now you weren’t. You had only just began putting a definition to the feelings you had for him. And now that seemed trivial at best.

Your hair was dry now. His shirt still smelled like him.

 

Bucky asked a promise of you.

He wanted you to be safe.

 

You bought a ticket.

 

You got on the train.

 

* * *

 

 

**An Indeterminate Amount of Time In The Future**

 

_Breathe in._

_Breathe out._

_Breathe in._

_Breathe out._

 

Banging on the door behind you.

 

“ _Y/N_!  _Please_! You don’t have to do this!”

 

Bucky’s voice. Desperate.  _Pleading_.

 

Tears in your eyes. Tears on your face.

 

Fear in your chest.

Fear in your chest

Fear in your chest.

 

He’s wrong. You don’t have a choice. You have to do this. You’re the only one who can.

 

_Fear in your bones._

_Fear in your bones._

_Fear in your bones._

Banging again.

 

His voice is breaking.

 

His presence only serves to remind you why you’re doing this.

 

_F e a r   i n   y o u r   s o u l._

_F e a r   i n   y o u r   s o u l._

_F e a r   i n   y o u r   s o u l._

Finally facing the one thing you have been fearing for most of your life. Finally facing the thing that could save you all.

 

_Or   d e s t r o y   y o u._

The thing in your nightmares. The thing in the seer’s vision. The inspiration for your tattoo. The Hellfire Club’s fixation.

Creation and ruin. Life and death.

Galaxy shaper; sun-eater.

The eternal flame.

The cosmic entity.

 

 

_**The Phoenix.** _

__

__

_Breathe in._

_Breathe out._

End Part 2


	26. Part 3 - Chapter Twenty-Six: If I Love You Does It Mean I Have To Let You Go?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You won’t give up on Bucky so easily. You’re going to find him, even if it means involving an old friend from the Hellfire Club. Oh, and the X-Men.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So, uh, as much as I tried to figure out time zones for this one, some of it just doesn’t work so don’t think about it too hard and I’m sorry. Also, this chapter is the longest to date and it’s the bane of my existence. I’ve edited it so many times because I wasn’t happy with it. I think I finally got it right so whoopie here we go.
> 
> Shout-out to @mallory627627627627627 on tumblr for helping me on this chapter <3

You weren’t going to let James Buchanan Barnes slip through your fingers that easily. **  
**

You had a lot of time to think about what you were going to do. The train ride to the city you had bought a train ticket for, an old Transylvanian town called Brașov, was almost three hours away. But despite the amount of time you were given to think this through, it only took you ten minutes of staring out the window and watching the Romanian countryside fly by to know what you needed to do next. There was only one option.

You sighed. You were so going to get yelled at.

 

The train station in Brașov had a phone booth just outside. You groaned and knocked your head softly against the glass a couple of times.

Bucky. You were doing this for Bucky. You couldn’t afford to waste any more time, especially if he was in some kind of danger.

You picked up the phone and slotted some change into the machine, then dialed the number. You listened to it ring, beginning to feel more and more anxious with every one.

Then finally,  _finally_ , the phone was picked up.

 _“Listen, it’s seven AM and I know_ some _people start their day that early, but I don’t tend to make a habit of it, so this better be important.”_

“Alex?” you said, your tone hesitant. You pressed the phone to your forehead for a second before continuing in a quiet voice. “It’s Y/N.”

 _“_ Y/N _?!”_  she shouted into your ear and you pulled the phone away, wincing.  _“Where the_ fuck _are you?! It has been_ TWO YEARS _— Do you have any idea what’s been happening while you’ve been gone?!”_  You closed your eyes and kept the phone a few inches away from your face.  _“The Inner Circle_ freaked the fuck out  _when you disappeared — except your mom, of course, who doesn’t seem to understand that Adler’s visions don’t always come true, no matter_ how many times _I’ve tried to explain it to her — We thought you might be_ dead _, Y/N! The only thing Frost told us was that you ran off with a_ Hydra assassin _who turned out to be_ CAPTAIN FUCKING AMERICA’S _best friend_ FROM THE FORTIES _! And then_ nothing _! FOR_ TWO YEARS _! Do you know how goddamn worried I’ve been about you?! Would it have killed you to at least let me know that you were_ alive _?! Pick up the fucking phone, babe!”_

You waited a few seconds in case she had anything left to say. “Are you done?” you asked, not unkindly.

She huffed a sigh.  _“_ Where are you _?”_

“I’ll explain everything when you get here,” you said. You could practically  _hear_  Alex’s confused expression on the other end. And her simmering annoyance.

_“When I—?”_

“I’m in Romania without a passport.”

_“Romania—!”_

You continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “I need you to take one of the Hellfire Club’s private jets and come get me. And I need you to do it  _quietly_.”

She was silent for a long time. You could tell she was annoyed with you.

_“. . . .You’re a real piece of work, anybody ever tell you that?”_

You smiled, just a little bit. “Yeah, you.”

She sighed. _“Okay. I’ll take a red eye tonight and meet you tomorrow.”_

“No,  _now_ ,” you said, a bit forcefully. “ I can’t explain over the phone but this is time-sensitive, alright? We’re wasting time as it is and the flight will take you nearly ten hours.”

 _“Okay, okay, calm down. I’ll go now.”_  You could hear rustling on the other end, as if she was getting up and walking around.  _“So where are you, exactly?”_

 

* * *

 

You met Alex just outside the city exactly nine hours and forty-nine minutes later, in an open field where the jet was able to land.

She rushed out of the plan to give you a crushing hug. “I’m so glad you’re okay,” she murmured, and you let the sweet smell of her shampoo and perfume wash over you for only a moment before pulling away.

Alex was your oldest friend, having grown up with you and the other telepath children who were raised by the members of the Inner Circle. When you left for New York at eighteen-years-old, she went with you. You lived together for a few years until your eventual separation.

You loved her, but Alex was too close to the Hellfire Club for your liking. She was always more involved with the Inner Circle than you were, and it made confiding in her difficult. After one too many arguments about it, she decided to leave, although things stayed civil between the two of you.

“We need to go to New York,” you said, not wasting any time getting to the point. “I’ll explain why on the way.”

You moved to walk past her to the jet, but she caught your arm and pulled you back to face her.

“Oh, no no no no no,” she said, shaking her head. “You’re going to explain first.” But then her eyebrows knitted together as she looked at you, and you could practically see the gears turning behind her eyes. Her head tilted, like she realized something. “This is about him, isn’t it? He isn’t here. Something happened to him.”

You sighed and Alex let go of your arm. You decided that the sooner you caught her up with everything the sooner you could leave. “Someone framed him for the terrorist attack in Vienna, and they came after him. We got separated. I went to our rendezvous point but he never made it there. So there are two possibilities: either he escaped or he was captured.”

She gave you a look. “I know you don’t want to hear it, but there’s a third option there.”

You shook your head. “He’s not dead. I would know if he was dead; I would feel it.”

You would know.

You would know.

. . . .Wouldn’t you?

Alex gave you a curious look. “You were  _that_  close to him?”

You shifted on your feet under her scrutiny. “Two years is a long time.”

Her head tilted to the side. “Were you—?”

“No,” you said before she could finish. “It wasn’t like that.”

“But you care about him.”

“Yes, which is why we need to  _go_.” You grabbed her hand and pulled her in the direction of the jet. “If he’s captured he could be in trouble, and I don’t even know  _where he is_  so the faster we get to New York the better.”

“You always do this; you’re avoiding the subject, babe,” she said as she let you tug her along. “You wanna know what I think?”

You began walking up the stairs to the jet. “I don’t.”

“I think you love him and you don’t want to admit it because it scares you.”

“You know, now is really not the time for a lecture, Alex.” You couldn’t deal with this right now. You needed to find Bucky. A myriad of horrible, awful things were running through your head right now and you were beginning to panic—

“Ohhhhhh, no. Don’t shut down. What about when you let him see your tattoo, huh? I know you felt something then. You can’t just—”

You turned on her sharply. “ _Stay out of my head, Alex_ ,” you  _snarled_  at her, piercing the words into her mind. She winced and took a step back down the stairs.

“Oh, did I hit a nerve, there?” she threw back. “Gotten used to just having  _him_  in your head, hm?”

You clenched your teeth and turned back around, continuing up the stairs. Alex caught up to you and caught your arm before you could enter the jet.

“Y/N,” she said, her voice softer this time. “Don’t ignore your feelings because you’re scared of losing him. Don’t disappear into yourself, babe. Tell him the truth, whatever that truth is — and if you can’t tell him the truth, the  _whole_  truth, then maybe he really isn’t the person you’re meant to be with.” Alex searched your eyes. She slid her hand down to squeeze your own. “You know that I just want you to be happy, right? That’s all I’ve ever wanted for you.”

You held her gaze for a few moments, guilt twisting inside you as you looked at her. You wanted to tell her that you were sorry, but you had done that when she left, and you knew she would tell you that that was enough. You gave her the smallest of nods before disappearing into the jet.

Alex followed close behind you. “So you want to go to New York to use Cerebro to find him. Assuming the X-Men are even going to let you use it, that’s almost ten hours to New York and then however long it’s gonna take to get to wherever he is. Are you sure this is the best way to do this?”

“Don’t you think I know all that? I went through all the options — this is the only way.”

It was rare for Alex to appear hesitant. You narrowed your eyes at her as she began her next sentence. “What about. . . .Has Adler’s vision come true yet? Are you—?”

“No,” you said firmly. “And even if I was, I wouldn’t use that power to project my telepathy across Europe; do you understand how many things could go wrong if I did? How many people I could hurt?”

“. . .It was just a suggestion, Y/N.”

Frustration and anger bubbled under your skin. “You know, you and the Inner Circle have never understood  _just how dangerous_ —” You cut yourself off, sucking in a breath. “I’m not going to have this argument again. Tell the pilot we’re going to New York.”

Mercifully, she did what you asked. You strapped into the fancy jet— and were reminded of the last time you were in a jet like this.

 

_You got into one of the jets — small, but one of those fancy ones that had nice seats and an open space in the middle. The Soldier went for the cockpit and sat, quickly pressing buttons and flipping switches._

 

You gripped the arms of the chair as sudden anguish clawed at your chest. This was going to take too long. What if they hurt him? What if they  _kill_  him?

You didn’t know how you were going to survive ten hours to New York.

When the jet was flying steady and high in the air, Alex unbuckled her seat and went over to sit next to you.

“. . .The Hellfire Club is going to find out that we were in New York. You know I would never voluntarily tell them — but you also know that my telepathy isn’t strong enough to stand against one of their interrogations,” she said, slowly. “They’re going to find out.”

“Doesn’t matter,” you replied. “I’ll be back in Europe — or wherever Bucky is — by the time they find out, anyway. I kept under the radar for two years, I can do it again.”

She drummed her fingers on your armrest. “I could come with you. That way they’d never know—”

“They would,” you interrupted her. “You know they would. Especially if we’re dealing with the X-Men — you know they never stopped keeping tabs on Jean Grey.”

“What are you going to do if your man  _is_  captured? I’m guessing you haven’t gone back on your whole pacifist thing in the past two years.”

This recurring attitude toward pacifism was beginning to get on your nerves. “I’ll find a way.”

“Let me  _help_  you,” she insisted. “I can do the things you’re not willing to.”

The implication of your words made your skin crawl, but you weren’t going to start an argument. Instead, you shook your head. “It’ll be easier for them to find us if we stick together. Besides, I need you to stay in America and be ground control, deal with the Inner Circle. I’ll find a way to check in every few months — if the Hellfire Club knows I’m alive, maybe they’ll leave me alone.”

Alex’s eyebrows furrowed together, sympathy swirling in her eyes. “They will never. Leave you. Alone. Not when they think you’re going to be the next Phoenix. Not when they  _need_  you.”

Your eyes flickered downwards. “I know.” You swallowed thickly. “I know.”

But as much as you feared the Hellfire Club — as much as you feared the idea of becoming the Phoenix — your mind was preoccupied with other things.

You couldn’t stop going over every moment of the last 24 hours.

Forwards.

.sdrawkcaB

Every word and every touch and every  _breath_  of  _Bucky_  — desperately hoping that these would not be the last words or the last touches or the last breaths of your friend that you would ever experience.

You wondered what was happening to him right now, as the jet carried you farther and farther away from wherever he was. You wondered if he was safe, or in danger, or just as worried about you as you were worried about him.

You wondered if Steve was still with him. And you wondered if—

 

**EXCRUCIATING PAIN SLUICED THROUGH YOUR**

**L**

**E**

**F**

**T**

**A**

**R**

**M**

 

**AND YOU CRIED OUT IN**

**A**

**G**

**O**

**N**

**Y**

YOUR STOMACH ROSE INTO YOUR THROAT, AS IF YOU WERE FALLING

 

SOMEWHERE, SOMEWHERE FAR AWAY, YOU COULD HEAR SOMEONE YELLING YOUR NAME

 

FAR, FAR AWAY, AN ALARM RANG, LOUD AND INSISTENT

 

**YOU FELT AS IF YOU HAD LOST YOUR ARM**

**ALL**

**OVER**

**A**

**G**

**A**

**I**

**N**

“ _Y/N_!”

 

THE VOICE WAS FAR A W A Y

 

**FOR A MOMENT, YOU COULD FEEL HIM, YOU WERE A PART OF HIM AGAIN**

“ _Y/N YOU KNOCKED OUT THE PILOT — THE PLANE IS GOING DOWN_!”

 

Shooting pain still running up and down your left arm, you snapped from your telepathic link with Bucky, returning to your own reality.

The jet screeched an alarm as the plane was nosediving down toward the ocean. Alex was above you where you had been writhing on the floor.

She was right; the pilot was unconscious. Your telepathy must have exploded out in defense of your pain and fear — even Alex seemed like she had barely held on, her own telepathy being the only advantage she had.

Fighting through the lingering torment, you reached out your mind to the pilot to stir her awake. She snapped out of her unconsciousness and grabbed the controls, pulling the jet back up.

You resumed clutching your left arm once the plane reached the correct altitude.

“What the  _fuck_  just happened?!” Alex questioned you, although you could hear the fear and concern in her voice.

“It’s Bucky, something happened to him,” your voice came out in panicked breaths. “Something  _is happening_  to him. He’s in trouble, we have to — we have to—”

“We have to what, Y/N?” Alex interrupted you. “We can’t go back to Romania, we still don’t know where your man is. Unless you happened to catch a glimpse while you were rolling around on the floor screaming and scaring the fuck out of me?”

 

A dark place. Concrete walls.

_. . .Iron Man?_

None of it was specific enough. He could be anywhere. “No,” you finally said. “I still don’t know where he is. But we have to  _do something_ —”

“We  _are_  doing something,” Alex said. “We’re going to New York to use Cerebro to find him.”

More tears welled in your eyes to match the ones that had already fallen during your telepathic episode. “We’ve barely been in the air for half an hour. That’s over nine more hours to New York, and then however long it’s going to take to get to him— He’s in danger  _now_ , I can’t just — I can’t—”

“Hey.” Alex cupped your cheeks with her hands, wiping away tears with her thumbs. “Is he dying, right now?”

“I don’t know — I  _don’t know_ —”

“Yes, you do,” she insisted. “You said you would know if he was dead, now _is he dying_?”

You closed your eyes, desperately fighting down the rising panic. You could still feel the lingering pain in your left arm. If you could still feel pain, it meant you could still feel  _him_.

You opened your eyes. “. . .No, he’s not dying. But he’s hurt—”

“And he’s just going to have to hold on a little bit longer, babe,” she murmured in a soothing tone. A sob clawed its way out of your throat, and Alex pulled you into a tight hug.

 

 

_Hold on, Bucky._

_Please, just hold on._

 

* * *

 

 

Every minute of the drive to Westchester was killing you, slowly. You had barely been able to get through the nine hours of flying — especially when every second brought you miles away from Bucky, Bucky who was in danger and pain and needed your help.

You weren’t sure how far your telepathic connection with him could stand. You told yourself you would  _feel it_  if he died, and yet, what if there was a limit? What if you were simply too far away to tell the difference?

_Steve. Steve will protect him. He’s not going to let his best friend die, not again._

_He’ll be okay._

It was strange, walking into a school full of people who were just like you. Seeing mutant children of various ages and looks, walking and running down the hall, chatting or laughing or smiling.

It was so. . .normal.

A large, furry, blue man approached you with a friendly and relaxed smile. He took off his glasses and wiped them briefly with the cloth he took from his suit jacket before returning them to his face.

“Hello. Can I help you?” he asked politely.

“We’re looking for Professor Xavier. We need his help, it’s urgent.” You didn’t try to downplay your situation like Alex suggested you do — there was no time. Barely restrained panic was thrumming under your chest like a caged bird.

“Ah, I see,” he said, nodding. “His office is this way, I’ll take you there.”

But you didn’t have to move a muscle, because the man in question was making his way over to you just as the gentleman who greeted you was turning in the direction of the office.

“Thank you, Hank, but there is no need,” Professor Charles Xavier said. He looked to you and Alex, giving you a gentle smile. “I’m Professor Xavier.”

“I’m—”

“I know who you are, Y/N L/N,” he said, interrupting you. “What is it that I can do to help you?”

Alex took a small step forward. “Maybe if we could speak somewhere more private—”

“I need to use Cerebro.” You weren’t planning on wasting any more time, no matter how many chastising looks Alex was going to give you. Every second spent dancing around the subject could be taking you a second closer to Bucky being hurt further. . .or worse.

A couple of students turned to look at you at the mention of Cerebro as they walked by. Professor Xavier’s head tilted slightly at your statement.

 _Your friend is right_ , his voice rang within your mind. (You didn’t know if you would ever get used to voices in your head that weren’t Bucky’s.)  _There are curious ears and eyes everywhere._

 _My friend is missing and in danger_ , you told him, getting right to the point.  _Please. I need to find him. Look into my mind if you want._

He hummed.  _You’ve come a long way._

_So you know how desperate I am. I need your help._

Professor Xavier pressed a button on his chair and it swivelled. “Come with me. I’ll take you where you need to go.”

You and Alex both stepped forward, but he held out a hand.

“Only you, I’m afraid,” he said. “Your friend can wait here until we come back.”

Alex’s eyebrows knitted together and she opened her mouth to speak, but you stopped her before she could.

“It’s okay,” you said. She pressed her lips together, but nodded, and you continued on down the hall.

 

 _“Welcome, Professor,”_  an automated voice said as Professor Xavier scanned his retina. You were in the basement underneath the school, a place with halls of white light. It made sense that Cerebro would be in a secret basement of the school — easy access, while not being explicitly advertised.

Cerebro was a large spherical room with a bridge to the control board. Professor Xavier rolled down the bridge and you followed close behind.

He took the helmet in his hands, then offered it to you.

“You’re going to let me use it, just like that?” you asked.

“I happen to be a powerful telepath, Y/N, as I’m sure you well know,” he said. “I can easily tell the difference between a trustworthy person and an untrustworthy one.” He gestured to take the helmet again. “Lucky for you, Y/N, I can tell you are the former. Though I do warn you, Cerebro can be overwhelming. Remember to focus on one thing, and one thing only. Try not to let the others distract you.”

You hesitated, but then took the helmet, and carefully put it over your head.

“Are you ready?” he asked you. You swallowed, then nodded.

The room awoke in a sudden burst of light, with figures of white and figures of red flying past you. You could feel your telepathy being stretched to its full extent,  _past_  its full extent, and you were afraid that any moment it would overwhelm you and snap.

“Focus,” Professor Xavier told you. “Focus on the person you’re looking for. Picture them. What they look like, what they sound like, how they act. The way they make you feel.”

A headache brewing in your mind, you did what he said and pictured Bucky. You pictured him as the last time you saw him, in his red henley and brown hoodie and black jacket. You pictured his metal arm and the intense blue of his eyes.

The feeling of his hands on your skin, his flesh, his metal, warm and cool on your body. The last time his eyes looked into yours, his words, his  _whisper_ —

 

_“See you soon, Doll.”_

 

The nickname that gave you indescribable happiness, the promise that you would see him again, that you would see him again,  _that you would see him again._

You thought about the feeling that was distinctly  _him_ , and you chased it.

The image of the Earth swivelled and you dove down into Africa — specifically, the small country of Wakanda, past jungle and wide open plains, and technologically advanced civilization, until you were in a building and  _you found him_.

 

He was sitting on a cot in an infirmary-type room. His left arm was  _gone_ , only the metal part of his shoulder was left. Something  _had_  happened.

But. . .He was safe. As far as you could tell, he was in a safe place, getting medical attention. Steve was with him, too.

 _“We’ve designed a new arm for you, made completely of vibranium. It should be ready by tomorrow.”_  Somewhere in your mind, you recognized the man to be Prince T’Challa of Wakanda — but you weren’t focusing on him. You couldn’t see anyone else besides Bucky, analysing him, watching his steady breaths, seeing him  _live_ —

_He’s alive he’s alive he’s alive._

_“Great,”_  Bucky responded.

Hearing his voice again practically threw you.

 _“Buck, I know you might not want to hear it,”_  Steve began,  _“but Y/N’s a telepath. If anyone could get rid of the trigger words in your head, she could.”_

 _Trigger words?_  Trigger  _words?_

What the fuck had Hydra done to him now? What is it that you had missed?

Trigger words.  _What happened?_

 _“I’m not going to involve her, Steve,”_  Bucky said, and he sounded exhausted. The resignation in his voice was breaking your heart.  _“We’re going on the run and if she’s safe I’m not going to pull her into this.”_

_Bucky. Oh, Bucky._

He sighed through his nose, quiet for a moment.  _“. . .Have Natasha’s contacts found her yet?”_

Steve shook his head.  _“They’re still looking. But she’s okay, Buck. Nobody was after her. She’ll be fine.”_

You didn’t need to see any more. Bucky was in Wakanda; Bucky was safe. And he wasn’t going anywhere for at least the next fifteen hours. That would be just long enough to get to him.

You took another second to take him in — tired but  _safe_  — before taking the helmet off (it took two or three tries to get your body to move, not wanting to take your eyes off of Bucky for a second, let alone the next fourteen and a half hours) and letting Cerebro go blank again.

“Thank you so much, Professor, but I really have to go now,” you said, rushed, and you turned on your heel to walk a few steps down the bridge.

“If I could offer some advice.”

His voice stopped you. For a reason you could not explain, you knew whatever he was about to say would not be good.

You slowly turned around to face him.

“Are you certain that going to him now is the best thing for both of you?” he asked.

You gave him a confused look. “I. . . .Yes. Of course.”  _Of course._

“You wanted to use Cerebro to make sure that he was safe. He’s safe,” Professor Xavier said, slowly. “Would going to him now increase his safety? And what of your own?”

You didn’t understand. “He’s my friend. We need each other. We’re safest when we’re together.”

The Professor sighed. He began wheeling closer to you. “I did not lie when I said I know who you are, Y/N. We have been watching you for some time now, ever since the seer Irene Adler predicted that you would become the next host to the Phoenix.”

Your jaw clenched so tightly you thought your teeth might crack. You took a step back, fear rising like waves, lapping at your ankles, your knees, your waist, your chest, your chin—

Professor Xavier continued. “We’re aware of what the Hellfire Club has been doing, and what they want with you.” He stopped his chair from rolling forward any farther. “What do you think they would do, if they knew that all that stood between them and the power of the Phoenix was one man?”

You didn’t like where he was going with this. You really didn’t like where he was going with this. A sick feeling churned in your stomach. Fear up to your nose, drowning you, choking you— “I hid from them for two years, I can do it again.”

“And that is precisely why they will not be making those same mistakes,” he said in a gentle tone. “Perhaps you need to consider the potential danger you would be putting him and yourself by going to where he is.”

Fear up to your eyes. You couldn’t see, tears were blurring your vision.

Fear over your head.

_Don’t make me, don’t make me, don’t make me._

_Don’t make me make this choice._

“If you believe you would both be safer together, then go,” he said. “But if not. . . .” Professor Xavier paused a moment. “You care for him. I don’t have to be a telepath to see it in your eyes. And perhaps that has to be enough to find the courage to make the difficult decision. You need to ask yourself — Could going to him now put him in danger? If the answer is yes, even by a small percentage. . .then you need to  _stay_.”

You looked back to the curved walls of Cerebro, as if you could still see the image of Bucky sitting there.

 _Safe_.

You swallowed and tried to breathe. Failed.

 

Your heart was

 

 _b r e a k i n g_.

 

“. . .Erase it,” you finally said in a fractured voice. “Erase the location of where he is from my mind. I can’t know where he is. If I know where he is, someone else could to.”

_If I know where he is, I could change my mind and put him in danger._

_If I know where he is, I won’t be strong enough to stay away._

“Are you sure?” Professor Xavier asked you patiently.

Your whole body was shaking.

_No._

_No._

_No._

Of course you weren’t sure.

_Tell him no. Tell him you’ll be safer together. Tell him you’ll deal with the consequences later._

_Even if those consequences could include Bucky’s death?_

_Fuck._

_Don’t make me. Don’t make me. Don’t make me make this choice._

“. . .I’m sure. Erase it.”

 

_I’m so sorry, Bucky._

_I’m so sorry._

 

* * *

 

 

**Six Months Later, Present Day**

 

You stayed in New York. You got your old job back. You tried to move on.

The Hellfire Club didn’t bother you, surprisingly. But you knew they were keeping tabs on you. They always had been before. And after you disappeared for two years, you knew they were never going to let you out of their sight again.

You kept yourself busy. You tried not to think about Bucky, where he was, what he was doing.

You tried to go to church a few times when you thought the grief and loneliness might overwhelm you. You met a lawyer vigilante and you watched for him in the news afterwards, like you watched for any news about Bucky and Steve and the others.

 

(You watched to make sure they weren’t dead.)

 

 _“Over the past six months, the Sokovia Accords and its sister document, which called for the registration of all mutants, has been slowly implemented across America,”_  your TV played through your apartment.  _“Mutant Rights Activists have been fighting against the registration, arguing that while it may work to keep humans safe, it also puts mutants in danger by outing them against their will. In related news, the mutant guerrilla group who have been calling themselves ‘The Brotherhood’ have been causing increasing instances of violence in retaliation to the document. Which begs the question — Is mutant registration right for America? Is it doing more harm than good, or are the instances perpetrated by mutant groups like the Brotherhood proof that we need it to keep us safe?”_

You started tuning out the story. You knew all of this; you were living it. The political animosity toward mutants had gotten steadily worse since you had moved back to New York. Thankfully, you had stayed under the radar, but with the way things were going, if the wrong people found out that you were unregistered it could spell trouble for you.

 _“There are some that say that the creation of the Mutant Response Division is an extreme reaction,”_  the woman on the television said to her guest.  _“What do you say to that?”_

 _“The Mutant Response Division was created to keep people safe,”_  the man emphasized.  _“There are a lot of dangerous mutants out there. The MRD is necessary to protect us all.”_

_“I’m told that you’ve also been overlooking the team that’s been sent to find the war-criminals and former Avengers Steve Rogers, Natasha Romanoff, Sam Wilson, and the terrorist Bucky Barnes. Have you had any luck finding them in the past six months?”_

You leaned forward in your seat. You weren’t breathing.

_“Unfortunately, not yet. But we’ll find them.”_

 

_KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK_

The sound coming from your door startled you. You breathed, and muted the TV so you could go and answer it.

You were surprised to see who was standing outside your apartment. It was an old friend of yours, someone you didn’t know super well but had become friends with because you were both mutants.

“Tereza?” you asked. She looked panicked.

“[Y/N, I need your help],” she said in her native Portugese. She knew some English, but you knew she was always more comfortable speaking her mother tongue, especially when she was stressed. “[I’m being deported back to Brazil, Y/N,  _they want to deport me_!]”

“[ _What_?]” you said, letting her step past you and into the apartment. You closed the door when she was inside. “[Why? Under what grounds? You’re here legally, they can’t do that.]”

“[It’s because they found out I’m a mutant],” she explained, her hands shaking. “[Someone — I don’t know, someone must have reported me. Now they have me on a list and they say that because I wasn’t honest with the government now they  _have the right to kick me out of the country_!]”

“[Okay, okay  _calm down_ ],” you said as soothingly as you could manage.

“[You have to help me. What do I do? What  _can_  I do?!]”

You licked your lips, thinking.

This was getting bad, the situation with mutants. Things were getting worse. Much worse. First, the Sokovia Accords claimed superheroes couldn’t act without permission — although many different vigilantes didn’t give a  _shit_  about that — and then with this mutant registration—

You stopped.

Vigilantes.

You turned back to Tereza. “[I have a plan. I think I know a lawyer who can help us.]”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I’m gonna be real honest with you guys, Part 3 is gonna be a bitch for me to write. I have a lot of general ideas, but not a lot of specific ones, so I’m hoping you guys will be patient with me as I figure out exactly how I’m going to get from A to B.


	27. Part 3 - Chapter Twenty-Seven: Matt Murdock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'No, I'm not okay. I lost my best friend.'

“Please don’t be angry when I’m not there for you  


Love me like I love you always and forever…”

\- The Berlin Wall, Berlin, Germany (2017) [ Picture credit: pandalandalopalis]

You didn’t even need to Google where Matt Murdock’s law firm was located, as it was one of the things you had picked from his mind two weeks ago when you’d met him. **  
**

The law firm’s name was  _Nelson & Murdock_ — the name ‘Foggy Nelson’ was the only information you had about Murdock’s partner, besides the fact that they seemed to be good friends.

It was late when Tereza had called on you, in her panic and in her fear, so there wasn’t much you could do for the night except let her sleep in your bed while you slept on the couch.

She had protested somewhat, but you insisted, claiming you slept better on the couch, anyway.

It wasn’t a lie.

With Bucky gone and your bed empty, your nightmares returned with what you might call a vengeance. They were worse than they had ever been before, and much more frequent.

Along with the usual nightmares of the Hand, Hydra, and the Phoenix, you had new recurring nightmares, nightmares that involved Bucky.

Nightmares that involved Bucky being hurt.

Nightmares that involved Bucky in pain.

Nightmares that involved Bucky dying.

Nightmares that involved Bucky being dead.

When you woke, screaming or crying or just unable to breathe, you slept on the couch. The couch was singular. You couldn’t fit two people sleeping on a couch. You couldn’t feel the empty void that Bucky left behind.

The bed was too big without another person in it.

Your apartment was too big without another person in it.

 

So you let Tereza sleep in your bed, and you slept on the couch, and first thing in the morning the two of you got up and headed to  _Nelson & Murdock_.

 

The door was open when you got there. It was a tiny law firm, with only two rooms and an open space in the middle where a strawberry-blonde woman sat at a desk. She was laughing at something another man was saying as he strode out of the room on the right.

“Look, all I’m saying is— Oh!” The man, who you assumed must have been Foggy Nelson, stopped what he was saying when he noticed you and Tereza enter. “Hi! I’m the Nelson in  _Nelson & Murdock_, but you can just call me Foggy. What can I do you for?”

“Do you take immigration cases?” you asked. “Specifically, wrongful deportation?”

He gave you a sort of  _‘eh’_  gesture. “Yeah, we can take a look. I can— Oh, Matt, good.” Foggy stepped past you and you turned to face the man who had just walked in, a tray of three coffees in hand. Foggy gave you a grin as he took one of them. “Can’t start the day without coffee, am I right?”

 

_You shook out the rest of the coffee grains left in the tin, then tossed it in the trash when it was empty._

Hey, remind me when I go shopping that we need more coffee.

_Bucky stopped what he was doing to turn and stare at you in surprise. You rubbed your eyes as you watched the coffee drip into the pot, then you poured it into your mug. You glanced at him as you reached for the sugar, taking in his expression._

What?

 

“Right,” you murmured.

Foggy took a moment to give the strawberry-blonde woman a coffee before returning. “Oh, and this is the Murdock in  _Nelson & Murdock_,” he added.

Murdock shifted the tray and his white cane so he could hold out his hand. “Just Matt is fine.”

You shook it. “We’ve met.”

His brows furrowed together, and although you couldn’t see his eyes behind his red-tinted glasses, you could feel his thoughts turning like gears in his mind.

 _He recognizes your voice_ , you mused.  _He knows who you are but he’s not going to say it because it would look suspicious. He is blind, after all._

You wondered briefly if he was as good a liar as you were.

 

_“I promise,” you **lied**._

_“Nothing you should worry about,” you said, you_ **lied** _._

_So you **lied** , and not for the last time. “I told you, I don’t know.”_

_“_ Nothing _.” A **lie**. They told you who they were._

_“I don’t know. I don’t remember.” **Lie**._

_“I promise.”_

_You wished to God you didn’t have to **lie**  to him._

_But you did._

 

“I was at the church last week,” you explained, even though you knew it was only for the benefit of the others.

Apparently that was enough information for a plausible moment of recognition. “Right,” he said. “I remember.”

_He’s suspicious of you._

(You were so focused on Matt that you didn’t notice the look Foggy was giving him, as if he had been told about that particular encounter.)

“What are you doing here?” he asked, although his tone was curious and not accusatory. But you weren’t fooled by his speaking voice. His mind told a different story.

“This is my friend, Tereza,” you said, and you paused as Matt held out his hand to shake hers. “The government’s trying to deport her back to Brazil. I’ve been told you guys are trustworthy when it comes to. . .special cases.”

“Define ‘special cases’,” Foggy asked, but Matt cut in as if he hadn’t spoken.

“You were recommended to us? By who?”

You searched his mind for a plausible name.

“Julieta Sancho,” you chose. Another immigrant case.

Matt hummed, nodding.

 

_Fuck._

_He knows you’re lying._

_He doesn’t know why, but he can hear your heartbeat._

_You need to be more careful in the future._

 

You could tell Foggy was aware of the change in atmosphere. He looked between you and Matt a couple of times before returning his attention to you and Tereza.

“So. . .your ‘special’ case?” he prompted.

Tereza gave you a nervous look. “[Are you sure we can trust them?]” she asked you in Portugese.

You looked from Matt, to Foggy, to the woman sitting at the desk behind you. You flitted through her mind briefly. Karen Page. Curious, but can keep a secret. You turned back to Tereza and nodded.

“[Okay],” she said. “[Tell them.]”

You nodded again, then took a breath before addressing the lawyers standing in front of you. “I’m sure you’re all aware of the current political climate right now. Tereza’s being deported because the government found out that she’s. . .unregistered.”

“She’s here illegally,” Matt mused. “Alright, we can look into her file and—”

“She’s here  _legally_ ,” you clarified. “That’s not what I meant when I said she was unregistered.”

Both Matt and Foggy gave you confused looks.

“She’s a mutant.”

It was Karen who spoke. You and Tereza turned around to look at her and she hesitated, as if she had said something wrong. “Sorry, I just. . .That’s the reason, right? The government’s deporting her because they found out that she’s a mutant?”

“Yes,” Tereza answered for herself.

“Can they do that?” Foggy asked Matt.

Matt’s head tilted to the side. “They’ve been changing so many things in the last six months but I haven’t heard anything about this. . . .We might have a case. We’d have to look into it.”

“So you’ll take it?” you asked.

“We’re pretty swamped as it is, especially with this one particularly difficult case we’ve got. . . .” Foggy began,

(That’s right. The Punisher thing. You’d seen updates about it on the news.)

“ _but_ , we’ll take a look,” he finished. “Never let it be said that  _Nelson & Murdock _turns away those in need!” He gave you a friendly grin and you could practically feel Tereza relaxing next to you.

“[I should go, I still have work],” she said to you. “[. . .At least for now.]” She gave you a resigned smile, then turned back to the men who were now acting as her lawyers. “Thank you,” she murmured sincerely, and moved past them to reach the door.

“She has work,” you explained as she left. “We’ll come back tomorrow with her information.”

You went to follow her out, but Matt’s voice stopped you.

“Hang on,” he said, and you turned around. “I never got your name.”

 

_“ **Y/N**.”_

_You looked up at Bucky in surprise as he spoke._

_“ **Y/N** ,” he repeated. “That’s your name.”_

 

_“Just be careful, **Y/N**.”_

_The sound of your name coming off his tongue was foreign and sent a shiver up your spine. You climbed out of the water and pretended the goosebumps that covered your flesh was from the cold of the pool._

 

_Bucky swayed on his knees. He pressed his metal hand to his shoulder; he had lost a lot of blood. His vision was becoming blurry as he looked at you._

_“_ **Y/N** _.”_

 

 _“ **Y/N** ,” he interrupted. “It’s _okay _.”_

 

_Bucky cleared his throat and he tapped his temple. “ **Y/N** , turn off your inner monologue.”_

 

_“No,” you interrupted him. “It’s Christmas. You sleep in on Christmas.”_

_“ **Y/N** —”_

 

_“Merry Christmas, **Y/N**.”_

 

_“Look at this, **Y/N**!” He gestured around you. “I’m missing a war.”_

 

_He rubbed his hands over his face. “We can’t keep having this conversation, **Y/N**. At some point, you need to let me take responsibility for these things! I’m guilty!”_

 

 _“You’re not guilty because you want to_ live _, **Y/N** ,” he whispered, but it might as well have been the loudest thing he had ever said._

 

_He glanced over at you. “ **Y/N** , you can’t protect me from all the things I’ve done, all the things that have happened to me.”_

 

_He pressed a kiss to your hair and murmured softly, “Happy New Year, **Y/N**.”_

 

“Y/N. L/N.” You were going to try to leave again but Matt continued.

“Do you speak any other languages besides Portugese?” he asked, adjusting his glasses and shifting his white cane from hand to hand.

_What is he doing?_

It seemed like he was. . . _stalling_?

“Yeah, I do,” you answered. “I’m a translator, actually.”

“A translator, huh?” Foggy said, sipping his coffee. He was sitting on the edge of Karen’s desk now. “That’s cool. How many languages do you speak?”

 

_“[I didn’t know you were a translator, Y/N],” Mr. Mikalos commented. “[How many languages do you speak?]”_

_You glanced at Bucky, giving him a secret smile before turning your attention back to your host. “[I’ll give you three guesses.]”_

 

Your chest tightened, but you did your best to ignore the feeling. Ignore the memory. Ignore the image of Bucky in your mind, with his blue eyes and shy smile staring at you from across the table.

“Enough,” was the clipped answer you gave to his question.

“Y’know, we could really use a translator around here,” Matt said, and your eyebrows began to knit together. “Sometimes we get clients who don’t speak the best English, and it would be great if we could understand them better.”

What was he doing? Was he trying to get close to you? Figure you out? Pry you open to get the truth? “I do have a job, but—”

 

_Oh._

 

Oh.

 

He was trying to reach out to you.

He remembered your conversation outside the church. . . .

You had read him all wrong.

He was trying. . .to  _help_  you.

 

Emotion washed over you. You hadn’t had someone worrying over you since. . .

Well.

 

_Bucky pressed a kiss to your forehead and you closed your eyes. Then he cupped your cheek and you looked into his blue once more._

 

A while.

 

You swallowed, and the sentence that was going to end with  _‘but thanks’_ , instead ended with, “I have flexible hours. If you need me. . .I can make time.”

“Great!” Foggy exclaimed. “. . .As long as you’re okay with getting paid in baked goods, that is.”

You gave him a small smile. “Is there any other way I would want to get paid?”

He grinned. “Oh, I like you.”

“I should get going,” you said. You went to Karen’s desk and scribbled on a piece of loose paper. “Here’s my number. Call me if you need me. And I’ll, uh, see you tomorrow, I guess.”

“Nice meeting you!” Karen called as you reached the door, and you gave her a wave before leaving.

 

You were out of the building and on the sidewalk when you heard someone calling your name behind you.

 

For a brief moment, you imagined Bucky’s voice. Imagined him scooping you up as you turned, spinning you round and round and unable to let you go because  _you’re here and he’s here and things could be bad but it doesn’t matter anymore._

_Holy shit, Y/N._

You needed to stop watching romantic comedies in your spare time.

 

You stopped and let Matt catch up to you, watching him twist his white cane in his hands.

“Listen,” he started. “I’ve been thinking a lot about our conversation outside the church and I just. . .wanted to make sure you were okay.”

You swallowed, suddenly finding it very difficult to speak.

_No, I’m not okay._

_I lost my best friend._

“Y’know, you said some things. . .” Matt continued. “. . .and I was just. . .worried.”

 

_“See?” you said as you opened your eyes to look at Bucky, the volume of your voice just over the roar of the waterfall. “This is nice. You worry too much, you know.”_

_“I worry about you.”_

 

“You don’t even know me,” you said in a small voice. You found your hand wandering to the metal star hanging around your neck, a remnant from another life.

“I know you feel alone,” Matt said, sincere. “I don’t think I have to know any more than that to want to help you.”

You probably shouldn’t have expected anything less from a vigilante who saved strangers on a nightly basis.

“You could come to church this week, if you want,” he added. “I’m not trying to  _convert_  you or anything, but I personally find it comforting to be there. Or, you could skip that bit and we could just go for coffee, afterwards. I’m no Catholic priest, but I can listen, if you want to talk.”

A memory of his flitted through your mind, one of a man called Father Lantom, offering Matt a similar deal.  _“Seal of confession still applies, even over lattes.”_

“. . .Yeah,” you said after a moment. “Okay.”

He gave you a gentle smile. “Great. So I’ll see you again tomorrow?”

 

_“Look at me,” Bucky whispered, and his voice was just as broken as yours was. “I’m going to see you again, alright? I promise.”_

 

_I promise._

_I promise._

“Yeah,” you replied. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Yes, that is every time Bucky says her name to her out loud. You can thank the movie "I’m Not Here" which inspired me to write this chapter.


End file.
